


The Paper House

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Arranged Marriage, Blackmail, Comeplay, Escalation of abuse, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Just the Tip, M/M, No Destiny AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-30 17:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19407727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: Ignis marries his uncle for inheritance purposes, moving back into a house he thought he'd escaped years ago.His uncle is waiting for him in the hall. He’s smiling. ‘Good to hear,’ he says, then adds: ‘Well, don’t you have something for me?’For a moment Ignis has no idea what he’s talking about. Then it occurs to him in the way his uncle is standing, watching him, and his memories tell him exactly what his uncle wants.‘I’m sorry, Uncle?’ he says, anyway.‘Carcer, call me Carcer,’ his uncle says, laughing. ‘I am your husband, after all. Don’t play coy.’He looks at Ignis, and Ignis is transported back eight years in the seconds it takes for his uncle’s smile to drop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fizzfooz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzfooz/gifts).



> Thank you, recip, for the great prompts! I hope very much you enjoy <3
> 
> All my thanks to my beta readers, lovely [Gooseberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/) and [crabapplered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered).

For all the downsides, Ignis knows, one of the benefits of being so tightly tied to Noct is that planning holidays becomes a lot easier, logistics-wise at least.

‘Trust me, I’ll sort it out,’ Gladio says, and Prompto nods doubtfully. ‘They’re used to just me and Iggy going with him. They’ll be gagging to have a third Crownsguard come with.’

‘It’s true,’ Noct says. ‘They won’t get off my back. You’d think I wanted to go fuck around in Niflheim or something.’

‘Which you’re not, you’re going to be fucking around in North Cavaugh, where it’s safe. Great,’ Gladio says before Prompto can interject with any more doubts. ‘All right, when?’

‘Specs?’ Noct looks over to Ignis, where he’s standing in the kitchen, washing rice to soak. Ignis looks down at the rice, and a wave of nerves and dread rushes him like a sparring partner taking him off guard, even though he can’t be off guard because he’s been anticipating this for weeks now.

‘You could have three weeks in late August, early September, if you rearrange a couple of things,’ he says. The rice is washed but he doesn’t want to stop and risk catching anyone’s eye.

‘Hold up,’ Gladio says. ‘August? He has a whole load of nothing in June.’

‘Well, yes,’ Ignis says, and tries to keep his voice calm and normal, but his heart is racing and he can feel sweat prickle in his armpits and on his back. ‘But I’m afraid I’ll be otherwise occupied then.’

Both Gladio and Noct turns to look at him then, because it’s not normal for Ignis to be busy with things that aren’t directly related to Noct. Not since he finished university, at any rate. Prompto, sensing something wrong, turns and stares as well.

‘You haven’t told me about this,’ Noct says, accusing. 

‘Well, yes,’ Ignis says, and he needs to say it — he just needs to open his mouth and say it, but it’s not coming out, as if the few extra seconds of not having to say it will mean anything at all.

‘What’s up, Iggy?’ Gladio says, voice careful in a way that makes everything worse.

‘I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy in June,’ Ignis says. ‘I’m getting married.’

It doesn’t feel better now he’s said it, like a weight taken off his chest. If anything it feels worse, because now the extra weights of Noct, Gladio and Prompto’s reactions and expectations are on him, too.

‘I’m sorry, _what?_ ’ Prompto says, and his voice is raised like he’s about to laugh, but he doesn’t. He goes quiet suddenly, and Ignis can only imagine he caught sight of Noct or Gladio’s expressions.

‘Who to?’ Gladio says. He says it casually, like it’s no big deal.

‘It’s not going to take more than a few days,’ Ignis says. ‘But unfortunately it coincides with the middle of when you’re free, Noct. I could leave you all to it and make the side trip to and from Insomnia by myself, but I flatter myself to think we’d prefer to go when I’m available.’

‘Yeah, but who to?’ Gladio says.

‘Carcer,’ Ignis says.

‘Your uncle?’

‘Yes,’ Ignis says, and washes and dries his hands so he can put the rice in the fridge. Behind him he hears movement and the slamming of a door; when he turns back Noct is gone.

Prompto is twisted to look at Noct’s bedroom door, but he looks back, glancing between Ignis and Gladio, wide-eyed. ‘No, wait,’ he says. His face is caught halfway to a nervous grin, like he still can’t quite tell if it’s a joke or not. ‘What? Your uncle? No, I’m sorry, but—’

‘It’s purely political,’ Ignis says, because of course Prompto didn’t grow up in this environment, so it would come as a shock to him more than any of them. ‘Carcer is my mother’s second cousin. As it turns out, Iudex, our head of the household, has decided that her cousin’s branch of the family, which is to say the branch that ends with me, is rather too well off. This marriage will end her cousin’s line as there will be no children, and more importantly move her wealth back to the main line by moving me to their family registry.’

‘Yeah, but your uncle? Sorry, but that’s just… I mean, they can’t make you do that, right? How old is he? Why can’t you just leave all your stuff to them in your will?’

It’s at once calming to lay everything out in clinical, logical terms, and frustrating that he’s having to dwell on it. He wants to go check on Noct, though he knows it will be better to leave him for at least a few more moments before interrupting him. ‘Wills can be contested, especially if I have children. Marriage, especially a childless one, is the easiest, most risk-free method of transferring wealth.’

‘But—’

‘Prompto.’ Gladio cuts in, hard and flat. Prompto shuts up. ‘Iggy, you need anything, you know we have your back.’

‘Thank you,’ Ignis says. The next few moments are a struggle; he can’t tell if he wants to keep talking about it or not. He hasn’t told anyone, and it’s been over two weeks since he’d been called to the family home and told the news.

‘It really shouldn’t change anything,’ Ignis says. ‘As I said, it’s political. I will have to move back into one of the family homes for a while, for their peace of mind I suppose, but nothing else need change.’

‘Still,’ Gladio says, ‘it’s shitty. Sorry, Iggy.’

‘We all have to make our sacrifices. This one is not so bad.’

Noct, of course, will have an arranged marriage. The only real option for him is the Lady Lunafreya, however, and if he had anyone in the world to choose from, Ignis imagines he’d choose her. Gladio has dated before, and it’s Ignis’ impression that the woman he will eventually settle down with in order to carry on the Amicitia line will be heavily vetted, but a woman Gladio has chosen nonetheless. A woman who has chosen Gladio. Prompto is not nobility, and his parents are so absent from his life that Ignis cannot imagine a scenario where they would wish to have a say in his marriage prospects.

Until a few weeks ago, Ignis had thought himself to be similarly lucky.

‘So,’ Ignis says, ‘August-September for camping, then? Any specific dates?’

‘I’ll be good to follow Noct’s time off,’ Gladio says, then looks pointedly at Prompto. ‘And Prompto will too, so whenever you and Noct can scrape together a week or two.’

‘We should time it for the new moon,’ Ignis says, leaning against the counter on his elbows. ‘To give the best conditions for stargazing.’

‘Uh,’ Prompto says, ‘isn’t that dangerous? Walking around at night outside Insomnia?’

Gladio slaps Prompto on the back hard enough to jolt him forwards, almost straight out of the chair. ‘Scared?’

‘Well duh,’ Prompto says. ‘Daemons. I didn’t sign up to die horribly so our buddy Noct could practice his amateur astronomy.’

‘No one will die,’ Ignis says, but just Noct’s name has his eyes flickering to Noct’s bedroom door. He had known it would be a blow to Noct — another thing coming between their friendship, alongside duty and long hours of work and the unequivocal finality of their respective ranks, but also as a reminder of Noct’s own future loss of autonomy. He still hadn’t expected it to hit quite this hard.

Arranged marriages are common. In many ways a marriage to his uncle is better than many other potential matches, because there will be no expectation of intimacy, monogamy, and children, all of which Ignis would struggle with given a female partner. It will be in his uncle’s interest, and their family’s interest, for Ignis to continue working for Noct and making a good name for himself. It will be political, a matter of paperwork only, and Gladio knows that. Prompto can be persuaded once he’s become accustomed to the thought of political marriage. Noct should know it, and know that this is the best marriage for his and Ignis’ relationship, whatever form it might take. So why is he so upset?

What does he know?

Noct’s name has them all subdued, reminding them of his absence. If Gladio hadn’t also been so taken aback by the news, Ignis imagines he would have gone in there and dragged Noct out.

It bothers Ignis that he’s the cause of this, the split in their ranks, the loss of their previous good mood. ‘Let me check on Noct,’ he says, undoing his apron and leaving it slung over a dining table chair. No one stops him, or makes any indication they think it’s a good idea.

Ignis knocks on Noct’s door gently, and when Noct doesn’t reply he lets himself in. Noct is on the bed, lying back with his legs off the side. One arm is covering his face. He doesn’t move when Ignis sits down beside him, leaning back, propped up on his hands.

‘I’m sorry, Noct. That was a terrible way to break the news.’

Noct makes a faint, grumbling sigh and doesn’t uncover his eyes. ‘It’s fine,’ he says, which would be an obvious and fake platitude even had Ignis not known him for sixteen years. 

‘I won’t let it come between us,’ Ignis tries. ‘My uncle was the one who pushed me into this career; he won’t do anything to jeopardize it.’

‘No, I know,’ Noct says. 

‘Is this anything to do with your future marriage?’

‘No,’ Noct says, and lies there in silence. Ignis wonders if he should leave him on his own for a while longer, or perhaps try to change the topic. He can hear Gladio speak, quiet, through the door.

‘It’s just—’ Noct says, his mouth twisting in unhappiness. ‘Your uncle.’

Something cold runs through Ignis, a shock like a kick to the gut. He can’t speak; he doesn’t know what to say.

‘Are you okay with it?’ Noct says.

‘It’s a political marriage,’ Ignis says, automatic and easy. ‘Of course it’s not what I’d choose, but what can I do? At least in this instance I will be able to continue working with you. It will prevent me from marrying in the future, but little else will change.’

‘Yeah,’ Noct says, ‘but—’ He stops himself. ‘No, whatever, it’s fine. Sorry I busted out of the conversation like that.’

‘Would you like to come back in? We’re talking about the camping.’

‘Gladio’s gonna be a bitch about it.’

‘I’ll make sure he isn’t.’

‘Tch.’ Noct lifts his arm from his face. His eyes meet Ignis’ for a moment, then quickly look away. ‘He’ll just ride my ass when you’re not around.’

‘Noct, I’m sorry.’

‘What are you sorry for? You’re the one…’ Noct stops talking and gets up, making the bed bounce. ‘Are you sure? You can’t rules lawyer your way out of it?’

‘You know my family,’ Ignis says, aware that Noct, as a matter of fact, doesn’t — at least not more than any other Insomnian nobility. He has met Ignis’ family because the Scientias are old, influential and wealthy. He has not met them because they are Ignis’ family. ‘What they say goes.’

‘Have you even tried to argue it?’

‘No, but—’ Ignis stands and goes over to Noct, touching his hand to Noct’s shoulder. ‘Come, Noct. You know there’s nothing I can do. Nothing will change, truly.’

Noct shrugs off Ignis’ hand. He pointedly doesn’t look Ignis in the eye as he turns and goes to leave. ‘Whatever. Let’s just go back in then.’

‘Got over your lover’s spat?’ Gladio says, as soon as the door is open. ‘Did Iggy suck you off to make you feel better?’

‘For gods’ sake, don’t be crude,’ Ignis snaps. Prompto’s eyes are open wide, and Ignis wonders if Gladio had been complaining about Noct to him.

‘It’s not all about you, you know,’ Gladio says, continuing, and Ignis hadn’t accounted for him being this upset as well. ‘Iggy’s the one getting married off and it’s your feelings we have to coddle?’

‘Gladio, I don’t need defending.’ Ignis moves to stand in front of Gladio, forcing him to look up to meet his eyes. Behind him, Noct slinks out and slouches next to Prompto on the sofa, getting out his phone. ‘Not from Noct, and not from my family. So please, if you do actually have my best interests at heart, keep your opinions to yourself next time.’

Gladio scowls. ‘Fine,’ he said, and grunts. ‘Sorry. I just—’

‘Just nothing,’ Ignis says, but softens it, because he does mean to keep the peace and not start another argument. ‘If I need your help I’ll ask for it.’

‘Alright,’ Gladio says, looking down at his hands before glancing back at Ignis. ‘Got it. You’re right, just hearing it so suddenly...’ He waves his hand in the air in a gesture of wordlessness. ‘You get what I mean. One last question then I’ll drop it: what’s the date?’

‘The third of June.’

‘Auspicious.’

‘Don’t joke,’ Noct snaps. ‘Weren’t we meant to be planning the camping?’

‘We were,’ Ignis says. ‘And because I believe it’s my right in this instance to have the last word — it’s a paper marriage. The worst of it is that I won’t be able to have any children, but the gods know I spend enough time looking after you three that that won’t matter in the slightest.’

Prompto laughs, short and bitten off at the end, more an expression of surprise than humour. Gladio smiles next, reluctant and stiff, but still a smile nonetheless. Noct does nothing, doesn’t even look up from his phone screen, but Ignis hadn’t expected him to.

‘Very well. We’re splitting our stay between one of the beach havens and a forest one with access to a lake or river, I assume we all agree?’

‘Yep,’ Noct says, at the same time as Prompto says: ‘Like we have any choice.’

‘None,’ Noct says, and the deadpan way he says it makes Prompto and Gladio both laugh.

It eases something in Ignis’ chest. He hates being pitied — he cannot stand it. If he can keep his relationships with his friends unchanged, then managing everything else might be possible. If they pity him, he thinks he won’t be able to face them again, and that more than anything will be disastrous.

‘How do you feel about renting chocobos?’ Ignis says, and sits down beside Gladio as Prompto whoops. Gladio’s skin is warm, his body solid and strong.

‘ _Fuck_ yeah,’ Prompto says, and Ignis opens up a tab on his phone for chocobo rental.


	2. Chapter 2

The marriage is in paper only — to have a ceremony would be crude — so there is little in the way of preparation. Ignis books in a day off to pray at the family shrine and a second day off for the wedding itself. The rest he can do in the evenings.

The rest includes packing up his belongings and visiting various other members of his family, including his parents and Iudex. The conversation is polite and distant, and no one asks Ignis whether he wants to be married or not. There are comments on his uncle, and how, since he raised Ignis, they must be close already. How his uncle is a very good man and it’s always surprised everyone that he never married. How it’s a good thing that his uncle won’t come in the way of Ignis’ career. How, out of everyone, Carcer is one of the better options, really.

It makes Ignis sick to the stomach to hear it, but he doesn’t let it show.

They tell Ignis that he’s doing well for his family — even his parents, who must be furious behind closed doors. Ignis nods and tells them that he wouldn’t do otherwise.

The preparations also include soothing Noct’s ruffled feathers. Noct remains much too distressed about the wedding for there not to be an underlying reason, but Ignis cannot pry it out of him. Perhaps he is being forcibly reminded of his own, eventual arranged marriage. Ignis cannot rule out that Noct is upset because he is perhaps interested in Ignis himself, romantically or sexually, except that he’s never indicated such a thing before, and whether or not Ignis is married it will be Noct’s marriage to Lunafreya that will make such relationships unfeasible.

Is it something else? Ignis cooks Noct’s favourite foods and stays with him most evenings, helping him write his speeches and reminding him of the appropriate party line for those policies where he must toe the line. He is especially kind. He gives Noct more slack to counter the tug of Gladio’s incesscent pull. He tries to listen actively at all times, be generous in his judgements, and thoughtful and constructive in his opinions. He is going about it all in entirely the wrong way, but as the date of the wedding creeps closer he all but moves into Noct’s spare room.

He is told that his uncle had dropped by his office, then his apartment, looking for him. Ignis packs up his laptop and bunkers down with Noct to work together.

Gladio is being careful around him, Ignis can tell, but he doesn’t seem as bothered as Noct is. He’s bought the line about the marriage being nothing more than a signature and stamp on a piece of paper, a slight re-ordering of family registries. No doubt he thinks it important that he shows Ignis nothing has changed and therefore nothing will change. Ignis takes advantage of this, taking the times he’s been told that his uncle is free of other obligations to spend them in the training rooms with Gladio. They don’t spar, but simply train: weights and cardio and synchronisation techniques. The training is mind-numbingly repetitive, but also soothing, at least in as far as exhausting himself to the ends of his body’s capabilities can be soothing. He swallows down the way the contents of his stomach try to eject themselves out through his mouth and crouches in the showers until the shakiness, nausea, and light-headedness pass. Gladio tells him he’s pushing himself too hard, but he can’t stop him.

Because he is with Noct so much of the time, he is also with Prompto a good deal more than usual as well. If either Noct or Prompto notice — and they must — they don’t mention it. Ignis is glad; sometimes, as he works at Noct’s dining table while Noct and Prompto game, he feels out of place. An outsider, someone who no longer fits in. He wants to game with them but he doesn’t have enough time. He’s thrown himself into his work, taking on extra duties, studying further, and that means there’s no space for gaming in his evenings now.

This is a good thing, Ignis tells himself, because just the commute from his uncle’s house to Noct’s, or his office in the Citadel, is over an hour each way. Soon what little free time he has will be dramatically reduced, even if he does what work he can on the commute, so it will be better to get used to a lack of time for games, among other things. He has no idea how long his uncle will want them to live together in his house. Will it affect Ignis’ career in the long term? Having to wake up an hour earlier than he already does will be nothing but detrimental when he barely scrapes enough sleep as it is.

Perhaps he can persuade Iudex to let him stay in his current accommodation.

He realises he’s staring at the paperwork scattered across Noct’s table, not taking any of it in. He hasn’t taken any of it in, despite having started work — he checks his watch — almost forty minutes ago.

Prompto and Noct are still playing the same game. Ignis lifts his head to watch the screen, the bright colours and flashy explosions, fast movement he’s struggling to keep track of. It’s too much; he lets his head sink. He feels ill. He should be almost done by now, but he hasn’t even started.

It shouldn’t be affecting him this much. It is a paper marriage only. He and his uncle are almost a decade older, and he is now an adult, ten times stronger and more clever than he was as a child. His uncle is now older, frailer, and had never been trained for physical violence in the way Ignis is.

It’s an empty, paper marriage. It’s a rearrangement of names on the two family registries. That’s it.

The days pass, and then weeks pass. The date of the wedding creeps closer and Ignis’ uncle appears to give up on fabricating a meeting. Iudex is happy enough, he’s told, pleased that everything is falling into place. Hopefully his compliance will mean she will be lenient later, though he suspects that his compliance will be considered the natural order of things and not a call for a reward, even mild leniency. For now Ignis avoids her as much as his uncle, even though he really ought to be spending more time on her to foster her goodwill.

He’ll regret it later, he tells himself, but he can’t stop himself from staying at Noct’s, or hiding himself away in the training rooms, as the days tick by. He hopes his friends think he’s merely trying to spend time with them.

Two days before the wedding, Ignis takes the train to the family compound, where the family shrine is. It’s a Monday — he is missing a day of work, and this bothers him immensely as he sits on the quiet train going away from the Citadel. It’s nonetheless required of him to go to bathe and make offerings to the Astrals, one for each of the Six, and pray to his chosen deity. There’s not going to be a ceremony, but not paying his respects to the gods is out of the question.

The compound is quiet, though given the time and day, that’s not unexpected. That, at least, is a good thing. The shrine is empty besides him; it is likely Iudex ordered it to be left that way for him specifically. The bright, white walls feel hollow and sad. He goes through the motions as if Iudex were sitting behind him, watching. He hasn’t prayed here in years, but the memories and knowledge come back easily. Now he goes with Noct to either a public shrine or one of the Citadel ones, and if perhaps he prays less than might be correct, no one comments on it. He’s as pious as is required — which is as much as pleases King Regis — and that’s enough for him.

Everything in the family shrine is as how he remembers it. It’s been more or less this way for the past three hundred years, or so he’s been told. His hair is still damp from the bath, and it’s cold.

Titan is the traditional Astral to pray to for weddings, at least for men, being both steadfast and associated with the earth, crops, and fertility. Ignis’ family favours Shiva as their patron deity, who is also emerging as the most popular choice for modern women. Or perhaps she’s always been popular with women, Ignis thinks, and it’s only now that the preferences of women are considered worthwhile enough to be common knowledge.

Shiva is the appropriate choice; Titan is the traditional one. He doesn’t, he knows, want to pray to either. He prays to Leviathan instead, asking for her willfulness, her relentlessness, the way she does not bend to the authority of Bahamut. Despite degrees of popularity there is no most correct Astral to ask for a good marriage; it still feels like sacrilege. He is going against his family’s traditions, inside the family shrine. Shiva is gentle, the last of the Six to strike him down for wandering eyes, but his family would be less kind if they find out.

They will not find out. Prayer is silent. He is complying to the marriage. He is doing everything they want. He is being at once a good, obedient child and extremely unfilial.

It’s dark by the time he is finished with his prayers. He picks up his briefcase at the shrine entrance and slips out without running into anyone senior enough he’d be obliged to stop and talk to them.

His uncle does not live in the family compound, though he does live nearby. They will all be taking the same trains in to and from the Citadel. Perhaps if he goes in especially early, on the basis that he needs to go to Noct first, he will be able to avoid being trapped in the same train carriage with any of them. Similarly, he will need to stay later than most of them. At the time of night he usually goes home, traffic won’t even be an issue — he can drive, though that will, of course, cause all sorts of problems with his car the following morning.

The train carriage is smooth and quiet on the tracks, and so late at night virtually empty. This line is one of the oldest, but given who travels on it, it’s also the one that’s had the most updates and improvement work. Ignis decides he infinitely prefers the slower, louder trains with the worn-out seat covers.

He goes to Noct’s rather than his own place. He has all of the day’s work to catch up on, but he’s tired. When he lets himself in through Noct’s front door he finds Noct sitting at the dining table, playing on his phone. His laptop is blank, either gone to sleep or not turned on in the first place, resting undisturbed in front of him.

Noct looks up. ‘Hey, Specs,’ he says. ‘How’d it go?’

‘As expected,’ Ignis says, shrugging out of his coat. ‘How was your evening?’

Noct makes a dismissive sound. ‘Fine. I was going to get Gladio and Prompto to come over but you didn’t say when you’d be done, and they both have to be in first thing tomorrow.’

He says it in a careless way, but it’s hard to read it as anything other than accusing. It stings worse than Ignis cares to let show. ‘My apologies,’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise.’

‘Whatever,’ Noct says, and looks back down at his phone. He’s playing King’s Knight. ‘If you want food there’s some in the fridge.’

Ignis goes to the fridge and looks in. ‘Do you want anything?’ he asks, because even when it’s late Noct still likes to snack, and can always do with more calories.

‘Nah.’

Ignis closes the fridge, turning to inspect Noct. ‘It’s not too late,’ he says. ‘And they can always stay the night, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Wow, Specs,’ Noct says, without feeling. ‘Going to be renting out my spare room next, are you?’

‘It’s up to you,’ Ignis says. The prospect of doing work is getting more and more exhausting with each passing moment. ‘Would you prefer I left?’

Noct doesn’t reply instantly. ‘No,’ he says, finally. ‘You can invite them over if you want.’

Ignis isn’t entirely sure if he wants, but he’s sure that Noct wants, so he gives both Gladio and Prompto a quick call. Prompto doesn’t pick up, so Ignis sends him a text instead. Gladio agrees to coming out a little too plainly and quickly, with no friendly argument. Perhaps he thinks it’s Ignis, almost on the eve of his wedding, who wants this.

 _Nothing will change_ , Ignis wants to tell him. _Don’t you dare change_. He doesn’t say anything other than to wish Gladio a safe journey.

Gladio lives considerably closer, and had left even as he was on the phone to Ignis. He arrives first, but Prompto isn’t far behind. Prompto brings a pack of Ebony with him, abashed at his own thoughtfulness. It’s awkward. Ignis wishes he’d brought alcohol instead, though he doesn’t say it.

He wishes they’d have fun together, but instead he finds himself falling asleep on Noct’s sofa, even after coffee. He hasn’t been sleeping much recently, he supposes. It’s late. If he wants more than five or so hours of sleep he’ll have to go home to bed immediately. He can hear Prompto and Gladio chat, low and sleepy themselves. He’s so tired.

Ignis opens his eyes. He’s aware that time has passed, and he sits up, disorientated. Gladio and Prompto are no longer talking. What time is it? The light is still on, and it’s still dark outside.

Gladio is snoring on the far end of the sofa, next to Noct who’s splayed out, sleeping like the dead. Prompto blinks from where he’s slouched next to Ignis. ‘Wassup?’ he says, clearly not fully awake.

Ignis gropes for his phone and checks the time. It’s 4:39. He swears. His mouth is furry and his head hurts.

‘You fell asleep,’ Prompto says, unhelpfully, and yawns. ‘We figured we’d support your life choices.’

‘You should have woken me,’ Ignis says, but he’s too muzzy to make it come out sharp. He puts away his phone and sits forward, scrubbing at his face. His hair falls down into his eyes.

‘Sorry, dude,’ Prompto says. He does sound apologetic. ‘You gonna go home?’

It’s too late to leave now. Ignis pushes himself to his feet and goes over to shake Noct, which wakes Gladio.

‘Fuck off, it’s still dark,’ he says, groaning.

‘Noct,’ Ignis says, ignoring Gladio. ‘Get up so you can sleep in your bed.’

Noct grunts but doesn’t move. He won’t, Ignis knows from experience; he’s probably not even awake, and even if he were he still would resist moving. Ignis bends and picks him up, one arm under his knees and one supporting his back, and carries him to his bedroom.

‘Ooh,’ Prompto says, from behind him. ‘Carrying him over the threshold, pretty risqué so close to—’

He stops abruptly. Ignis’ feet almost stumble as Noct tenses in his arms, then twists violently.

‘Put me down,’ he says, and Ignis clings to him in a moment of thoughtless instinct before dropping Noct’s legs and letting him down.

‘I’m sorry,’ Prompto says. ‘Shit, I didn’t mean to say that.’

Noct shoves away from Ignis and goes into his room. He doesn’t close his door behind him, but flops onto the bed and rolls himself up in the duvet, facing away from the doorway.

‘Nice going,’ Gladio says. Ignis feels absurd to be standing there, arms empty, but if he turns around Gladio and Prompto will see his face, and if they see his face he feels, superstitiously, they will be able to see everything he’s thinking and feeling.

‘I’m sorry!’ Prompto says again, louder, and it just makes Ignis feel worse. He feels like he’s about to do something humiliating, like cry. His face is flushed, his throat tight. He turns and goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

He, Prompto, and Gladio are the only people who use Noct’s spare bedroom, and since they all can store whatever toiletries and spare clothes they need in the armiger, the spare bathroom is largely empty. It’s cool and clean and Ignis braces his hands on the sink, trying to breathe in its atmosphere of blank calm. Slowly, he feels himself go cold, the heat draining from his cheeks. He takes out his toothbrush and toothpaste and brushes his teeth, then washes his face. Even though he just woke up he thinks he’s still too exhausted to stand a shower, but a shower would mean being able to avoid Gladio and Prompto for a while longer. Maybe if he stays in the bathroom long enough they will go to the spare bedroom and he can return to the sofa. Or maybe they’ll sleep on the sofa and he can take the bed.

Maybe he should just go home. He doesn’t want to. His furniture is all being got rid of; his uncle has no space to store excess. The armiger is not a place to store frivolous belongings, either, so Ignis has already thrown away or donated several loads of personal items that won’t fit into his new — his old, childhood — bedroom. What’s left is already packed up, sitting neatly in boxes in his living-dining area.

He doesn’t want to go home. For a moment he feels a burst of anger, bright and hot, that Prompto had to ruin something like Noct’s body in his arms, loose and sleepy and comfortable. It dies quickly, turning to bitter ash-paste in his mouth.

He wishes he hadn’t got up after he’d woken. This all wouldn’t have happened if he’d only stayed put and not disturbed anyone. 

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. ‘Hey,’ Gladio says, and when Ignis doesn’t reply he lets himself in. ‘Shove over so I can brush my teeth.’

He’s acting overly casual, which is at once insulting and soothing. ‘Prompto is taking the couch,’ Gladio adds as he squeezes toothpaste onto his toothbrush, ‘so we get the spare bed. You better not be hogging it when I get there.’

It’s a dismissal, but Ignis takes it. It’s dark in the living room, but the bathroom casts enough light for Ignis to make his way to the spare bedroom without unnecessary fumbling. He changes into his pyjamas and slips into bed. A few minutes later the bathroom light flicks off and Gladio joins him, reaching over to plug his phone in and leave it on the bedside table.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gladio says when he settles down. He’s left his phone screen-side up and it lights up the ceiling and part of the wall. ‘That was messed up.’

‘It’s fine,’ Ignis says. It’s not, but he needs Gladio to stop talking about it, or he’ll lose all stoicness he’d managed to shore up in the bathroom.

‘It’s not, though,’ Gladio says, and turns. The mattress shifts, sheets tugging at Ignis’ body.

‘Gladio, don’t,’ Ignis says, and his voice is already wavering. Shame eats at him, but he can’t say anything more without his voice betraying him.

Gladio is silent for a moment, long enough Ignis almost thinks he’s dropped it. Then he says, ‘C’mere,’ and reaches out to drag Ignis back and into the fold of his arms.

Ignis finds himself clutching at Gladio, his back to Gladio’s front. His fingers digging into Gladio’s arms must hurt, so he relaxes his grip. ‘I’m _fine_ ,’ he says, but it comes out pathetic, doing more to convince anyone who’s listening of the opposite.

Gladio’s body is warm, turning hot where it’s pressed against him. He’s strong, solid muscle; if he wanted to he could hold Ignis and, short of bringing out his knives, there’d be little Ignis could do to stop him. His breath is burning against Ignis’ skin. He is immediately present, real and undeniable in a physical way. When Ignis presses back against him, his body to Gladio’s body, Gladio starts stroking his arm, tentative as Ignis lies still beneath his hand.

It’s like there’s a soap bubble sharing the bed with them, and any sudden movement, any sharp breath, will pop it. Ignis shifts his feet to push one between Gladio’s legs, the other resting against his ankle, and Gladio’s hand moves to Ignis’ waist.

He shouldn’t — he wants — what does Gladio want? Does he want Ignis, or is he acting out of pity? His fingers slip under Ignis’ shirt and touch the bare skin of his waist, halting there.

He wants to be touched. He wants it more than anything, so badly his whole chest hurts for it. He wants Gladio to touch him all over, every inch of his skin, his hands like paintbrushes wet with paint. The world feels simultaneously dreamlike and over-processed, like a poor quality photo that’s been sharpened beyond its potential. Gladio’s body is more real than anything else, even Ignis’ own body. Ignis realises his breathing is strange, open-mouthed, and his heartbeat feels off-tempo.

Gladio’s hand on Ignis’ hip still isn’t moving, so Ignis puts his own hand on it and pushes it down, further under the waistband of his pyjamas. He pushes back against Gladio and feels Gladio’s erection pressed up against him, just as hard and real as the rest of him. Gladio’s breathing has deepened, Ignis thinks, gone rougher and harder.

They should talk, he knows distantly, but he doesn’t think he can. He’s not sure Gladio can either, when Gladio tugs at his pyjamas and Ignis lifts his hips so that Gladio can slip them and his underwear down. They only reach the middle of Ignis’ hips when Gladio leaves them, and there’s a moment of shuffling as Gladio pushes his other arm under Ignis’ body, curling it up to hold him close. Then his arm settles back over Ignis’ waist, moving slowly down.

Ignis is hard, can feel himself throb and twitch, and he tries not to twist onto his stomach to rut against the mattress when Gladio’s hand smoothes down one hip and caresses his thigh instead of touching him. Gladio’s lips press against the back of his neck, scaldingly hot, and Ignis’ breath catches. He tries to guide Gladio’s hand still running over his thigh, but all he really manages to do is cling to Gladio’s wrist.

He grinds back against Gladio’s cock, rubbing himself up and down it. He thinks he wants to be impaled on it, have it thrust hard up into him, be stretched open and forced to accommodate its length and girth, but he’s not sure. His breaths come in harsh pants. He wants Gladio to _do_ something, but he still can’t speak, or move much else than to squirm in Gladio’s arms.

Finally, Gladio’s hand moves again, and he grasps Ignis’ cock. His hand is cold, and rough, broader and larger than Ignis’ hands. When he tugs at Ignis’ cock his hips also jolt forwards, shoving Ignis bodily.

They fall into a rhythm of sorts, awkward and unsynchronised, nothing at all like the perfect synchronisation of their paired fighting or dancing. Ignis is torn between thrusting into Gladio’s hand in front of him, and rubbing against Gladio’s cock behind him. Gladio squeezes and strokes Ignis’ cock inexpertly, and also grinds forwards, panting in Ignis’ ear.

Ignis reaches back to yank at Gladio’s pyjamas, pulling his trousers and underwear down just enough that he can grasp Gladio’s cock and tug it out, feel it hard and damp as it ruts against the cleft of his arse.

The sheets feel insubstantial. Ignis feels insubstantial, like he’ll wake up soon. Heat and tension build up inside him and make everything feel even less real. His body and the world proceed on with him as an impartial observer.

He comes, shuddering in Gladio’s arms, muffling himself with his hands over his mouth. Gladio is still rubbing off against him; the bed is solid and doesn’t make a sound, but Ignis wonders if Prompto can hear their harsh breathing. The walls and door are thick, but—

Gladio comes, gripping Ignis hard against his chest. Ignis can feel the come hit his skin, and all of a sudden he thinks how annoying it is, that he’s dirty now he’s already in bed.

A split second later the feeling of dirtiness overwhelms him. He has lost his virginity to awkward fumbling in Noct’s spare bedroom, two days before he is to be married. He has taken advantage of Gladio. The awfulness of the situation swallows him whole, threatening to break him. Gladio is moving away to pull a pack of tissues from the armiger, cleaning off his hand and awkwardly dabbing at Ignis’ back, and Ignis rolls on his front. He can’t bear it. Misery comes from nowhere and takes complete hold of him. He shouldn’t have done it. He’s never been a good child, but until now he’s never been a _bad_ one.

‘Hey,’ Gladio whispers, hoarse, but Ignis’ can’t reply for the force of his breathing, only barely controlled. He feels disgusting. He is disgusting. He loves Gladio; this should have been good. He ruined it.

Gladio doesn’t say anything more. He seems hesitant to touch Ignis; Ignis wishes he would, desperately, but he cannot open his mouth and ask for it. His lungs are not connected; his tongue is a foreign body in his mouth. If he concentrates on his breathing and airways then he cannot focus too hard on what else he is feeling.

He falls asleep on the far end of the bed to Gladio, lips bitten so he isn’t pathetic and cry like a child, misery like rocks settling inside him.

The wedding takes place two days later, in the family compound, overseen by an official registrar. There is no ceremony, no banquet. At the end Ignis’ uncle — Ignis’ husband — drives them both home.


	3. Chapter 3

‘Welcome home,’ Ignis’ uncle says as Ignis steps into his house. ‘As I understand, they’ve already moved your belongings in — ah, so they have. I left slippers for you, did you find them?’

Ignis did; he takes off his shoes and puts on the slippers. They’re new. He’d brought his own, an older and worn pair, so they’ll have to go when he unpacks them.

‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘I did.’

His uncle is waiting for him in the hall. He’s smiling. ‘Good to hear,’ he says, then adds: ‘Well, don’t you have something for me?’

For a moment Ignis has no idea what he’s talking about. Then it occurs to him in the way his uncle is standing, watching him; his memories tell him exactly what his uncle wants.

‘I’m sorry, Uncle?’ he says anyway.

‘Carcer, call me Carcer,’ his uncle says, laughing. ‘I am your husband, after all. Don’t play coy.’

He looks at Ignis, and Ignis is transported back eight years in the seconds it takes for his uncle’s smile to drop.

Ignis’ mouth is dry. Even though he’s a couple of inches taller than his uncle he cannot shake the idea that he’s very small.

He is an adult; he is trained and deadly and if he wanted to he could physically overpower his uncle in seconds. ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate,’ he says, but even his words come out childish.

‘I don’t think that matters,’ his uncle says, instantly nasty. ‘When you’re in my house you will do as you’re told.’

His uncle is standing in the hallway and could easily move to block Ignis from passing him to go further into the house. To go back would be to go back out the front door, but Ignis doesn’t have the keys to get back in. He could go to Noct’s or Gladio’s, but that would mean they’d know something was wrong. He could go to his office and lock the door, or go to the gym, or library, or training rooms. He’d have to come back eventually, though, and then he’d have to ask his uncle to let him back in.

Ignis leans down and presses his lips to his uncle’s. He straightens and walks past his uncle, who doesn’t stop him, and goes into his bedroom.

It’s violently nostalgic, even though it’s been stripped of everything but a bed, a bedside table, and a desk, and all of it is new, different to how it had been when he’d been a child. He looks in the closet; the layout of the shelves and rail is the same, and he remembers trying to stack all his books in with his clothes because his uncle disliked clutter on his desk. He’d been too short to reach the top shelves, and his uncle hadn’t allowed him to stand on the chair to reach.

He’s unpacking his first box when the door to his bedroom opens. His uncle comes in, looking around as if it were all new and not part of his own house.

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t close the door,’ he says. ‘It gets very stuffy if there’s no breeze, if you remember.’

‘I remember,’ Ignis says, and stands stupidly with the box at his feet, because he doesn’t want his uncle to see his belongings even though he will, of course, sooner or later.

‘Don’t let me delay you. I imagine you have a lot to get through,’ his uncle says, but he doesn’t move.

The second to fourth boxes have his clothes inside, so Ignis goes to open those ones instead. The moving company used boxes with rails, so it takes barely any time to shift everything over to the closet. He wants to fold his underwear, organise it to fit the shape of the drawer it’s going in, but self-conscious, he shoves it in as quickly as possible. When he turns back his uncle is opening up the first box and looking through the contents — notebooks of non-work content, his pens and other items of stationery, his phone charger and a battery pack, his sewing kit, miscellaneous things taken from around his old bedroom.

‘Whatever do you need this for?’ his uncle asks, picking up the sewing kit and opening it to root around in it.

‘Emergencies,’ Ignis says, and can’t do anything but stand there helplessly as his uncle continues to look through it.

‘Well don’t worry, I have a very good tailor on call,’ his uncle says. ‘Goodness, imagine spending your time sewing. And I thought you were busy looking after the prince.’

‘Uncle,’ Ignis begins. ‘Please—’

‘Ignis, stop.’ His uncle frowns. ‘I’m sure you simply forgot to not close your door; it has been eight years since you moved out. But I told you just now to call me by my name. That you’ve chosen to ignore me is extraordinarily rude.’

There’s nothing Ignis can do to take back his sewing kit. At least, he knows, it’s all things he’s bought himself and were not given to him as gifts. He still finds himself staring helplessly at his neat little box in his uncle’s arms, containing the expensive fabric shears he particularly likes, and the threads that he knows match Noct’s favourite clothes exactly.

‘I’m sorry; I’ll try not to do it again,’ Ignis says, the words coming out of his mouth automatically, and on their heels a sharp frustration and shame that he would say it so easily. But a retraction gets caught in his throat and won’t come out.

‘So long as you try,’ Ignis’ uncle says, airly, and he leaves with Ignis’ sewing kit still tucked under one arm.

Ignis finishes putting away his belongings in silence. Humiliation sits on his chest and makes it hard to breathe. He should have known his uncle would do something like that. He should have been prepared for it. But he also knows it’s better to let these things go. The amount of fuss his uncle kicks up when he’s unhappy means that anything Ignis is trying to achieve by pushing back quickly loses its worth.

At the wedding Iudex had been clearly happy. Not for the wedding itself, Ignis understands, or even the end point of having successfully chopped off the head of her cousin’ lineage to benefit her own. She’d merely been content to be reminded of her power and place as the head of the household. And that, Ignis knows, is a good thing. When Iudex is happy she is generous.

In a short while he will be able to petition her to move back out. He can phrase it as being for his job, which should please her, because she approves of dedication to work. There have been no rumours of relationships, so that will also count in his favour. His uncle may protest, but without being able to say his true intentions he will have no real argument.

A month, Ignis decides. In a month he will ask. He will be on his best behaviour — no being out of the house overnight or especially late, no public over-familiarity with anyone. No arguing with his uncle.

He will have to talk to Gladio. It would be unkind to leave what happened two nights ago undiscussed, but…. when they’re alone after training, perhaps. He will have to tell him it didn’t mean anything, because otherwise the temptation to start something would be difficult to resist, and starting something might be enough to ruin everything.

He’ll be fine. A month, then however many days for Iudex to approve, and he’ll be out and able to put this behind him. Compared to the six years before, when he’d been a child, a month will be nothing. And now he is an adult. Spending long hours in his office is expected. Going out with colleagues is expected. His uncle is not intimidating any more.

It doesn’t take long to put away his belongings. He has more books, but anticipating that there wouldn’t be enough space in his bedroom, he had taken them to his office a few days ago. They’re still there, haphazardly stacked up on a side table he’d commandeered from an adjacent meeting room, but at least they’re not on the floor, or somewhere in the rest of his uncle’s house. He’s still brought enough to his uncle’s house that the drawers of his desk are awkwardly full, messy in a way he doesn’t have the energy to solve, if it’s solvable at all; there’s precious little space. Several items he’s had to place in the closet. At least now he can reach the top shelves.

There’s not much else to do. Ignis gets out his laptop and opens his emails.

Ten minutes later his uncle is standing in his doorway. Ignis looks up. ‘Since it’s our big day,’ his uncle says dryly, ‘I thought I could take you out for dinner. Get ready, we’re leaving in ten minutes.’

‘Can I—’ Ignis starts.

‘Ten minutes, Ignis. I’ve already called for a reservation.’

It’s his day off; he really has no need to answer emails immediately. But he shouldn’t just let his uncle talk to him like he’s a child. He should create boundaries. He’s an adult now.

His uncle has already walked away. Ignis stares at his laptop for a moment longer, then closes it. He’ll need to pick his battles. There’s no point in fostering bad will this early on for such a minor thing.

He’d dressed well, if not up, for the wedding: professional, in an unassuming, and, in his opinion, boring suit. His jacket will most likely be overkill for dinner, as will his tie, so he takes those off but leaves the rest on. His uncle, he’d noticed, had been similarly dressed, so he can assume that’s the appropriate attire for wherever they’re going. Or he can hope, anyway, because his uncle might well be changing into something more informal.

When, ten minutes later, he’s by the door waiting, his uncle brushes past him to get to his shoes. ‘You look very nice,’ he says, and he touches Ignis’ waist. ‘The Crownsguard training did you very well.’

Ignis steps back. _Do not touch me,_ he’d say if it were anyone else, hard and warning. The words flounder, and his uncle is already slipping on his shoes, his back turned to Ignis. It’s fine; he just has to pick his battles. It’s too late to object now, he knows, following his uncle out of the door. It’s not worth the fuss.

He can feel each moment and whatever dominance he might have had slip away, but somehow he can’t do anything to stop it.

In public, eating a nice meal that his uncle pays for even though Ignis knows he earns more, they are the picture of a respectable, familial relationship. They talk about work, but only what is professional to share outside the workplace. They talk about the local university falling in rankings because of poor management, and how it’s lucky no one in the family had chosen to go there.

Afterwards they go home, and Ignis tries not to make a point of not going within arm’s reach of his uncle, but he knows his uncle can see it. Neither comment on it, but that’s not what matters. The thought exhausts him. He gets changed into home clothes, standing in a corner of the room where his uncle cannot see in through the open door, and immerses himself in replying to the last of his emails.

‘Ignis,’ his uncle says from the doorway, and Ignis startles. He hadn’t heard him enter. ‘It’s late; go to bed.’

‘I know my own sleep schedule,’ Ignis says, and tiredness gives him the courage — or stupidity, or aggression — he’d lacked earlier. ‘I’m not a child, Uncle.’

‘ _What_ did I tell you about calling me by my name?’ Ignis’ uncle snaps, quick as a dagger blade. ‘You might say you’re not a child but apparently you’re stupid as one.’

Anger flares inside Ignis, the previous slights all returning at once. ‘I am advisor to Prince Noctis, and I will be Hand of the King,’ Ignis snaps right back, standing to turn and face his uncle. ‘I am considerably more successful than you, more intelligent, and more capable. I call you Uncle because you are my uncle. Perhaps ten years ago you were superior to me, but ten years ago you were superior to a child. Now I am an adult, and you will treat me as such. I will not have you insult me.’

For an agonising moment Ignis’ uncle looks completely taken aback, dumbfounded, and wordless. For a single split second Ignis thinks that his uncle will fold, and that he will have won.

‘You are in my house,’ Ignis’ uncle says. ‘You will respect me as the head of the household.’

He seems impotent in his fury, and for a second Ignis thinks he’ll cross the room and strike him — or try to. Instead Ignis’ uncle turns on his heel and leaves.

The doorway gapes, dark, like a mouth. Ignis is abruptly reminded of the nightmares he’d had of open doorways, the sleeplessness and waking fear as he lay in his bed, not knowing whether it was safe to open his eyes.

The adrenaline he feels now is familiar to what he remembers. It makes him shake and feel nauseated. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. He’s only pushed his uncle into inevitable retaliation. He should have kept his cool and been better than he had been as a child. He’s an adult now, and dealing with difficult people is part of his job. Why had he failed so utterly now? He’s angry, still, but now it’s at himself.

He goes to bed, but can’t stop thinking about his uncle standing in the doorway.

The next morning he wakes, washes, and leaves after dressing. His uncle is not yet awake, and Ignis slips out without confrontation.

He knows the route to the train station by heart, feet taking him there like he’d never been away. He’ll need to buy breakfast, or eat with Noct, since he has training in four hours and will not be able to perform without food.

He’ll buy something, he decides. Anything out of the ordinary would be a red flag to Noct, and eating breakfast with him is not unknown but definitely not standard, either. There is no reason to remind him of any change in their lives.

The day is filled with second-guessing and doubt. How can he simultaneously indicate that nothing has changed yet also reassure his friends that he is well? Anything he does will only confirm their prior beliefs of the situation. If they think he’s angry, anything he does will be read as anger; if they think he’s miserable, they will see him as miserable, either explicitly or implicitly and hiding it. What that means is that he can act in any way he wants, but he doesn’t want that helplessness against their perception of him. He wants to control the situation.

Noct has his own office, but he works with Ignis enough that they regularly share. This time he spends the afternoon in Ignis’ office, where they both work on Ignis’ oversized desk. He’s less surly than Ignis had thought he might be, but it’s difficult to tell when his moods swing daily depending on his contact with his father and how well politics and training goes, as well as more private, indeterminable reasons. Gladio, when he comes up to Ignis’ office at the end of the day, is overly forceful, but he is a good actor when he wants to be, and he’s observant enough to see Ignis wants him to act normal. Ignis owes him earnestness at the very least, but it is so easy to pretend that nothing is wrong.

Prompto, when they pick him up on the way back to Noct’s, is somehow the most conscientious of normality. Perhaps Noct or Gladio had warned him beforehand. Either way he greets Ignis effusively but not too effusively, and doesn’t hold awkward eye contact when he asks Ignis how he’s been. They’re all enjoying themselves despite Noct and Gladio’s minor awkwardness, having eaten dinner and heading out to go watch a film, and Ignis almost forgets himself.

He’s buying their tickets and food at the kiosk when his card declines. He tries another, and that declines as well. Humiliation makes his face flush as the cashier politely asks him if he has another method of payment.

He doesn’t have enough cash to cover the purchase. With a painful certainty he knows he needn’t bother trying any of his other cards.

‘Specs?’ Noct sidles up beside him. ‘Problem?’

‘A slight technical mishap,’ Ignis says, and closes his wallet, moving it out of sight of Noct. ‘I seem to have brought the wrong wallet.’

Noct knows he doesn’t have two wallets, and even if he did he knows Ignis would keep both in the armiger anyway. ‘I can pay,’ he says, like it’s no big deal. It isn’t a big deal in monetary terms — it’s not a large sum, for all that Ignis is lacking cash — but it must feel momentous that Ignis needs rescuing from something so fundamental as making a purchase.

Ignis wants to say, _Thank you but no; I’ll be quite all right_. He can’t. He literally cannot pay by himself.

‘That would be appreciated,’ he is forced to say — his uncle forces him to say, because there is no doubt that he is the reason for the sudden failure of all of Ignis’ bank accounts. ‘I’ll pay you back tomorrow, of course.’

‘Literally don’t even think about it,’ Noct says as he fishes out the money, not even looking at Ignis. ‘I probably owe you from something anyway.’

He’s so casual about it all, it’s almost enough to stop Ignis wanting to leave immediately and never come back. He still wants to dig himself a hole and sit there until he’s mummified, sustained by the enormity, the raging wildfire, of his embarrassment. Gladio and Prompto must be watching, wondering what’s happening. They must be able to see Noct paying. He hadn’t particularly wanted to see the film in the first place, but now the thought of having to sit there in the same theatre as Noct, and Gladio and Prompto, and everyone else in the queue who saw the exchange and is wondering if he often freeloads off his generous prince. No one comments, of course. He thinks Gladio tries to catch his eye once or twice, but he’s not sure. He studiously avoids catching anyone’s eye. He doesn’t care that it will look suspicious. Anything he does will look suspicious.

It’s awkward after the film. He hates it. He drops everyone off at their respective homes and then goes back to his uncle’s house. It’s only 11pm. He hopes his uncle will be asleep, but isn’t surprised to find him awake.

‘You’re home late,’ his uncle says, looking up from his computer. There’s music playing; the radio.

‘I was entertaining the prince,’ Ignis says. ‘How was your day?’

‘Oh, you know, nothing exciting.’ His uncle looks back down at the monitor. From this angle Ignis can’t see what he’s doing on the computer. ‘You must be tired. Best run off to bed.’

The patronising dismissal is the cherry on the cake of his frustration and humiliation. Ignis takes it anyway, because he doesn’t think he can stand to be in his uncle’s presence any longer. ‘Good night,’ he says, as bland and unaffected as he can make it, and turns to leave.

‘Oh, one more thing—’

Ignis pauses. The urge to walk away is very almost overpowering, but it will only lead to further retaliation. Whatever his uncle wants will be less effort than whatever he will do should Ignis refuse. He knows that. He had nine years of his childhood to learn that.

‘Yes?’ Ignis says, and turns back.

‘Perhaps it’s an indulgence, but having such a handsome young man in my house is making me weak. I’d like you to say good night to me properly, please, Ignis.’

‘How would you like that?’ Ignis asks, and he’s tired, and angry at his uncle, and furious with himself, and impotent to do anything at all about any of it. Why is he still like this?

‘Just a kiss,’ his uncle says, and smiles. When Ignis steps forward and leans down to kiss him, he places his hand on the back of Ignis’ head to hold him in place. He runs his other hand down Ignis’ side, from chest to hip.

They break apart. The kiss had been chaste, but Ignis feels nausea crawl in his throat like slugs. He can still feel the weight of his uncle’s hands on his body.

‘Good night,’ he says, and leaves before his uncle can say or do anything more.


	4. Chapter 4

Life carries on. Ignis calls his banks, and while it takes several days — his schedule is punishingly tight, and more than once he is forced to give up, having been on hold but needing to hang up or be late for his next appointment — he is able to move his funds out of his and his uncle’s joint bank account. Two days later his uncle closes Ignis’ accounts down again, and puts everything into another joint account.

Ignis isn’t sure if his uncle will find out if he opens a private account and siphons off a small amount of his paycheck into it; he’s not sure he wants to try. His uncle did not retaliate the first time Ignis removed himself from the joint account, but that says nothing of what he’ll do if Ignis continues to push his luck.

It’s not so bad. He doesn’t buy much for himself anyway. It still bothers him that his uncle will see where he shops and how much he spends.

His parents ignore his calls. He’d wanted to gauge how they feel about the wedding, and whether he can rely on them as support, as little support as they’d be given their current standing in the family. He supposes silence is as clear an answer as any he’ll get, but it’s disheartening all the same. He’s never liked his parents, but he’d hoped their parental and filial bond would be stronger than it’s proving to be. They must have been angrier about the wedding and the death of their own family line and inheritance than he’d expected. He was stupid not to have considered it.

Noct is sulky, making up for his previous good mood with a grim misery whenever Ignis tries to get him to work or be productive. Ignis tries to not let it affect him, like he always does; he knows Noct will snap out of it sooner or later, but now he cooks Noct breakfast, eats with him, works with and for him, all in aggravated silence. It feels worse than usual. Ignis tells himself that’s just his own emotions colouring his outlook, and not Noct’s fault at all.

Gladio never brings up that night they’d fucked, so Ignis doesn’t either. It’s never going to happen again, so perhaps it is best they pretend they did no such thing as sleeping together. Ignis may have been a virgin, but he’s confident it can’t have been good — that it was embarrassingly bad, even — for Gladio, who’d certainly not been a virgin. How can he bring that up, except by apologising? He hates apologising, especially when sincere. Better to forget it entirely. Gladio more than likely feels the same way.

Prompto, on the other hand, is spending more and more nights at Noct’s. The way he looks at Noct and laughs, and the way Noct grins back, if reluctantly, makes Ignis think — something. He’s not sure what he thinks. Prompto is Noct’s only friend, or at least his only friend who is not also on his payroll. Their relationship has changed a lot over the years; if now it contains Prompto rubbing Noct’s shoulders, and tapping him playfull on the arse, and Noct retaliating by getting Prompto in a headlock and tickling him until he’s gasping, then — then what? What is it supposed to mean? That they’re dating? They’re wildly in love? They’re good friends and this is how good friendship works outside Insomnian nobility? That Prompto can drag Noct out of his misery when Ignis cannot smarts.

Except Gladio is in on it too. Prompto drapes himself over Gladio’s lap and Gladio pretends to play drums on his belly. He grabs Noct by the nape of his neck and shakes him, and they playfight on the floor, knocking over chairs and threatening the TV until Noct finally phases from Gladio’s grip and escapes. They lounge around with their feet on each other’s laps and kick each other in the face when their games get too intense.

Ignis stays in the kitchen. He can’t justify staying late to game to his uncle, but he can justify cooking and working for Noct, and it’s nice enough just to be near his friends even if it’s not doing anything fun. He watches them and wonders if it’s himself warding them and their newfound physicality away, or if they’re avoiding him. He feels like it’s probably the former. If he closes his eyes he can imagine himself wearing a jacket of hedgehog spines, short and prickly, allowing people close but not that close.

His uncle strips him of it when he arrives home. He touches Ignis’ shoulders, the back of his neck and head, his thighs when he’s sitting. He kisses Ignis, or gets Ignis to kiss him, lips dry and closed, and Ignis wonders each time if this is the time he will open his mouth to kiss Ignis deeper, push his tongue into him.

It will happen. Ignis just isn’t sure when.

His uncle comes into the bathroom while Ignis is bathing, sits and chats with Ignis while running his eyes up and down his body. He squeezes Ignis’ biceps and tells him he must come to see Ignis train some day.

The idea of his uncle in the training halls is one Ignis can’t help but shy from. In the training halls he is in control; he is respected. Even if he’s not the best by a very long shot, he is still senior. It’s his domain, like his office is, and the meeting rooms he favours, and Noct’s — Noct’s kitchen.

He’s not sure when he’d been demoted from overseer of Noct’s apartment to Noct’s kitchen help. He thinks he probably put himself there, quarantined himself away because he doesn’t _want_ anyone to touch him. He doesn’t want to playfight or roughhouse, or pet Noct or rest on or beneath him. He wants things to go back to how they were.

They’re not going to, he knows. He remembers being excited for the camping trip, but he’s not any longer. He’s so busy with overtime, making up for the two weeks they’ll be gone, that he barely sleeps. Even the most minor task takes longer than it ought, and he’s waiting for the time he’ll be pulled aside and asked why his performance is so low. His uncle doesn’t like him getting back later than the last train, so he works at his desk in his room, where his uncle will come up behind him and kiss the bare skin at the back of his neck.

‘Working hard,’ he says, and he tilts Ignis’ head to the side and up so he can kiss him on the mouth. ‘You’re a credit to the family.’

‘Thank you,’ Ignis says, because he knows that’s the only answer that won’t set off his uncle into an aggravated tirade, a monologue on all of Ignis’ failures. Even if Ignis doesn’t mind sitting blankly through them, he’s barely scraping four or five hours of sleep as it is. He can’t afford to lose another half-hour or more to an argument he could avoid.

‘It must be royal magic,’ his uncle says, ‘that keeps you in such fine shape when you spend half your life at a desk.’

Ignis laughs and says, ‘It must be.’ He doesn’t want to mention training, as if not reminding his uncle of his training will stop him from intruding on it. He’s not even sure if his uncle has the right permissions to enter where the Crownsguard train, but there’s every chance he could get in regardless.

‘I’d be more jealous,’ his uncle says, ‘if not for the fact that I get to see the results gracing my house.’

Ignis doesn’t reply. 

‘By the way,’ his uncle says, ‘I’d like if it you are home for breakfast. What time do you get up? It can’t be good.’

‘Unfortunately,’ Ignis says, ‘I am required by His Highness in the mornings. I’ll see what I can do, though.’

Ignis means to do no such thing; to have first thing in the mornings to himself is a blessing, a victory small as it is, and he intends to keep it. He can’t tell if his uncle believes him or not, but he does leave him to his work. He kisses Ignis before he goes, touching Ignis’ neck, slipping his fingers down the collar of his shirt.

Ignis tries to call his parents one last time, but they don’t pick up. They’ve abandoned him to his new family, that much is clear. It is hard to blame them, Ignis knows, when he is the one who left them for Iudex, and killed their plans of grandchildren and a lineage. Whatever he tells them, he knows they’ll ignore it. Iudex, ironically matching their stance, will do whatever needs to be done for the good of the family, and a sex abuse scandal, much less an incestuous one, will never be permitted. It doesn’t matter if anyone believes Ignis or not; at best he will be sent away, kept quiet. At worst they will do everything to discredit him, paint him as the abuser, not suited to being the least of the Crown’s servants, let alone the Prince’s advisor. Even though he is worth more to them, his uncle is family by blood. He is Iudex’s son. She will protect him and punish anyone who tries to harm him.

A month after the wedding — the time he’d originally planned to ask Iudex for permission to move away from the family and closer to his work — falls too close to the camping trip, Ignis decides. He is not entirely sure how it will affect Iudex’s decision, but the idea of her refusing is terrifying. She shouldn’t, but if she does—

He can’t ask until he’s sure she’ll say yes. He needs to speak to her first to judge her opinion, but he is so very busy. Noct and Gladio talk about him cooking the fish Noct catches, campfire barbeques and whether a cooking station will go into and out of the armiger successfully, but all Ignis can think about is sleeping. Even the idea of chocobo rentals is no longer thrilling. He’s almost tempted to tell the others he cannot make it, and to book a hotel for the two weeks and do nothing but sleep. His uncle would see the booking on his bank statement, making it out of the question, but the daydream is still seductive.

The days are agonisingly slow, but they still pass. Ignis books the last of their reservations, double checks everything is recorded and has the approval of security, and goes home and tells his uncle that he will be gone for two weeks.

‘Is that so?’ his uncle says, disinterested. ‘Very well. Dinner is in half an hour.’

Ignis leaves him to whatever he is doing on the computer, going to lie down in his room. He’s still exhausted from his late afternoon training with Noct, then the rest of the evening spent doing his heavy lifts, a once weekly programme and his least favourite. Dinner with his uncle is either eating out, or meals that the Optio, the help his uncle employs, has made. Neither are designed for Ignis’ nutritional needs, the lack of calories only one of the issues, but there isn’t much he can do about it. He despises protein powder; as an ingredient it offends him, but he now keeps it in his office, hidden in the bottom drawer, and grimaces as he incorporates it into his lunches to make up for the deficit of his uncle’s dinners. He forces himself to eat chocolate bars, coffee with full-fat milk, deep fried snacks, empty calories, just to try keep himself from losing weight.

Today’s dinner is rice, soup, tempura, and fish, one dish raw, another of grilled mackerel, and a dish of vegetables. Ignis doesn’t concentrate on the food, even though it’s excellently cooked, and eats everything he can. It is not enough. It is detrimental to his training, he knows, but it’s just easier to go hungry in the evenings. His uncle would make too much of a fuss if he tried to ask for as much more as he needs, or cooked for himself, or went out afterwards to eat. His uncle probably doesn’t even know he is hungry, Ignis thinks; dinners are always enough food for a sedentary lifestyle, after all. It’s better to not give him any more ammunition by telling him Ignis needs more.

The one benefit is that Ignis now is obliged to eat breakfast with Noct. They have similar nutritional needs, and if Noct’s grocery bill has gone up no one will care even if they notice. Noct probably thinks that Ignis is trying to make time to be with him, or possibly using him as an excuse to eat breakfast out of home. That’s not ideal either, but it’s better than the alternative. And it’s true — being able to get up before his uncle does, and leave for Noct’s, is a small but tangible victory in his favour.

That day, when Ignis serves up breakfast, Noct is reading something on his phone.

‘Breakfast,’ Ignis says needlessly, as he lays out the food. ‘Eat up.’

‘Mm, sure,’ Noct says, and takes a few long moments more to finish what he’s reading and slip his phone back into the armiger. He wasn’t typing anything, so it probably wasn’t him talking to anyone. Reading what, then? Ignis could ask, but perhaps Noct doesn’t want to share. If he’d wanted to he could have said something to begin with. Ignis is hungry, even though he’d snacked on a few things while cooking, and he’s tired. The day promises to be another extremely long one.

‘Not going to bug me about what I was distracted by?’ Noct asks as he digs in. He doesn’t sound irritated. If anything he’s playing coy, or teasing. He’s trying to lure Ignis into the conversation, which means that he wants to speak to Ignis about something. Or anything, maybe. For all that Ignis is using Noct to get away from his uncle, he hasn’t been paying him back with much, good company included. Not asking about what Noct had been doing had been the wrong choice, then.

‘What were you distracted by?’ Ignis asks obediently, and he tries not to let the guilt show on his voice. It’s a small wonder the others are all growing closer to each other but not to him. He’s pulling away, separating himself, oil from water. Maybe it’s for the best. If they are too close they might see what his uncle is truly like, and tell someone, and ruin Ignis’ plans for getting out.

Noct grabs his phone again, turning it to show Ignis. ‘Look,’ he says, and the screen is showing a series of fish. Ignis scrolls up and finds it to be a list of fish that can be caught at a lake near to where they’ll be camping. ‘Gladio says it’s not worth going here, but they have eels.’

Ignis’ mind is blank at the knowledge. There are several things he ought to be saying, he knows, and they come all at once and get tangled together. He should support Noct in general. The lake is not logistically impractical. Eel is something Noct has not, to his knowledge, caught before, it being a protected species in Insomnia proper but not in Cavanaugh. Eel would be a delicious addition to the menu. There’s a pun — eel is a ridiculously easy word to make into a pun — but for the moment he can’t find it.

‘That sound enticing,’ he says, and smiles to show Noct he’s earnest, not dry and sarcastic. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on a few eels.’

Noct looks a little lost, like he expected a different response. The conversation, brief as it had been, falters and comes to a halt. Ignis doesn’t know how to revive it.

They’re done eating, and Ignis takes the dishes back to the kitchen. Unexpectedly, Noct comes with him, holding a few plates of his own.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, cornering Ignis by the sink. He’s always been shy, but then he’s always been bolstered by the care he holds for his friends, too.

‘I’m fine, Noct,’ Ignis says, and even as he knows he should stop and do something to reassure Noct, something else in him makes him put the dishes down abruptly, skirt around Noct, and get out of the kitchen. His heart is beating fast, like he’s scared.

When Noct follows him, it’s at a respectable distance. Ignis needs to go and reassure him, touch his back or ruffle his hair, which Noct wouldn’t dislike despite his protests, it being in the morning and before he’s styled his hair for the day.

He doesn’t want to. He does it anyway, pulling Noct into a sideways hug. Noct grumbles but looks better afterwards, more cheerful and alert, in as much as he’s ever cheerful and alert this time of the morning. ‘Get off me,’ he says, and Ignis smiles as he obliges.

Later that day he fits a day trip to the lake on their itinerary, including the hire of a boat. It takes up his lunch break, but it’s more than worth the satisfaction that he’s done something well for Noct, as easy as it is. He sends a screenshot of the booking in the group chat and basks in Noct’s gloating at having got his way.

Two days before they’re set to go, Ignis’ uncle takes Ignis out to dinner. He stops Ignis before he can sit down, the waitress waiting to one side. ‘Ignis,’ he says, hand on Ignis’ arm, ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t go on this camping trip.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ignis says, unable to be surprised, ‘but I’m required as part of the prince’s retinue. I can’t just not go.’

‘They can find someone else,’ his uncle says. He lets go of Ignis to seat himself at the table, and the waitress looks relieved they didn’t cause a scene. ‘You’re not irreplaceable, Ignis.’

Alarm spikes through Ignis. ‘In this scenario, I am,’ he says, and sits. He can’t push it — his uncle getting invested in just how replaceable he is is never going to be a good thing — but he can’t let it slide either. He glances at the waitress, prompting her to explain the menu, and when she leaves he uses it as a springboard to forcible change the topic.

His uncle allows it, but he says it again when they get home. ‘I want you to stay,’ he says.

‘I can’t,’ Ignis says. His uncle knows he cannot, and will not, back out now. Is he trying to make Ignis disobedient in order to punish him later and say it’s legitimate? Or will he file this in the case that he may be making for Iudex, to keep Ignis with him? Or is there another reason?

‘I am very unhappy about this,’ his uncle says, and stands so Ignis is pinned to the wall, close enough Ignis can see his individual eyelashes even in the dim light of the corridor.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ignis says, ‘but there’s nothing I can do. To back out now will be entirely unprofessional and call into question my basic competence as a Crown employee. I would obey you,’ he adds, taking a risk, ‘if it were my choice, but it’s not. It’s the Crown’s.’

Ignis’ uncle’s expression softens, but the faint smile is ironic, and not particularly kind. ‘I sincerely doubt that,’ he says, and he presses closer still, placing his hands low on Ignis’ waist. ‘You’ve never once obeyed me because you want to.’

There’s nothing Ignis can say. They both know the truth, which is damning, which makes a pretty lie damning as well.

They kiss, and Ignis opens his mouth helplessly when his uncle does. He has never kissed anyone like this before; he had no time, no one he particularly liked, and those interested in him were always too irritating for one reason or another. He doesn’t know how to move his tongue, where to position his head, or what to do in response to his uncle’s tongue, or lips, or hands now stroking up and down his sides. Ignis’ own hands are pressed against the wall behind him, and his eyes are closed. The kiss is forcefully present, physical and refusing to be ignored or brushed over like other kinds of discomfort can be. Ignis cannot stop tasting his uncle’s mouth, or feeling how wet and soft his tongue is. He can smell his uncle. He can feel the press of his belt buckle on his lower stomach.

It’s just a kiss. All he needs to do is fumble along with it, and then his uncle will allow him to finish his work and then go to bed. It will be so much easier than breaking away and having to live with whatever his uncle decides in retaliation.

When his uncle breaks away for a second, Ignis thinks it’s over; his uncle presses his lips back to Ignis, and Ignis kisses back as best he can.

When he gets back he will petition Iudex to move out. He can then carry on like this never happened.

Even when he’s moved out, though, his uncle will still be able to slander him to Iudex. There’s no good reason his uncle has for forcing Ignis to live with him, or at least none he can tell his family. If it becomes impossible to force Ignis to live with him, does that mean he will seek retaliation by punishing Ignis in any way he can, even if it doesn’t benefit himself?

Ignis can’t not think of that possibility, all that night and the next day. What will his uncle do? Will he do anything? He’s selfish, narcissistic, and spiteful, but he’s not evil. Would he work to punish Ignis if it didn’t provide himself with a tangible benefit? Ignis lies awake and thinks _yes_ , then on the commute the next morning _no_ , then _yes_ again when he’s at work.

Then it’s the start of their camping holiday, and he’s sliding into a car with Noct, Gladio, and Prompto. When he starts to drive it feels like he’s been peeled away from his uncle’s house and been placed in another world entirely. He feels stupid for even thinking about him. It’s a world where his uncle doesn’t exist, there’s just himself and his friends. It’s dangerous because he’s not really in that world — that world does not exist — and his uncle is waiting for his return, but—

He catches Prompto grinning at him from the passenger seat, face alight with excitement, and he finds himself grinning back. He ruffles Prompto’s hair just to annoy him, and uses his role as driver to duck out of retribution.

Two weeks isn’t a long time. He’ll make the most of it.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s absurd that Ignis has already forgotten it, but somehow, he has. Gladio approaches him on the first afternoon, when Noct and Prompto are out doing some combination of exploring, taking photographs, and egging each other into doing stupid things.

‘Hey,’ Gladio says, and he’s casual but he doesn’t bother to pretend it’s not serious, too. He knows by now that Ignis can read him ruthlessly accurately, so he very rarely tries to hide anything. It’s useful, but at the same time it means Ignis has to consider Gladio’s feelings the majority of the time, sometimes when he doesn’t want to.

Ignis puts down his pans where he’s fussing over the cooking station and turns to perch on the edge of the table. He realises instantly what Gladio is about to say.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, which would be suicide were this a debate or something he means to have the upper hand on, but he doesn’t care. He is sorry. The guilt and regret come suddenly, out from where he’d forgotten them, and are overpowering.

‘So I’m guessing it was just a fling, then,’ Gladio says, and he says it so flatly Ignis can tell he’s hurt, and badly.

‘I — Gladio, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, and then everything moved past it so quickly. I treated you abominably. I have no excuse.’

‘Shit.’ Gladio rubs his mouth. ‘So you knew how crappy it was but you still didn’t bother saying anything? But it’s not like I said anything either. Do you know how hard it is to get you alone these days?’

Ignis supposes it has been hard. He’s been eating evening meals with his uncle and working over lunch and weekends. He’s been so concerned about surviving, one day after the next, he hasn’t put any effort into anything else. Not even Noct, given Noct’s behaviour around him.

‘Almost as hard as it is to grab a spare moment for myself,’ Ignis says, but without judgement. He doesn’t want this to become an argument. He needs Gladio on his side, desperately. ‘I’m sorry, again. My uncle is… strict when it comes to how he considers family members ought to comport themselves.’

It’s admitting a weakness, so of course Gladio jumps on it. ‘He treating you okay?’

‘He’s fine,’ Ignis says with a shake of his head. ‘Just eating up all of my spare time. I’m going to petition to leave and move back near Noct and the Citadel when we get back to Insomnia. For work purposes, officially. The commute is punishing.’

‘Bet it is,’ Gladio says. ‘I’m not going to just forget you pumped and dumped me, but… shit, Iggy. Did you actually want me, or was I just an opportunity, and you would’ve fucked anyone?’

The rawness in his voice is terrible. Ignis turns his head to look out into the forest where Noct and Prompto disappeared off into, unable to face him. ‘It was you,’ Ignis says. He shouldn’t be honest, but he wants to be, so very badly. He needs Gladio to know and understand him. The urge to tell him everything is strong, but if he drip-feeds Gladio parts of the truth then maybe it will relieve some of the pressure without letting him know too much. The words come spilling out. ‘If it had been Prompto or Noct instead, maybe — I don’t know, Gladio. I’m sorry. But I wanted closeness, I think. Only you could have… I wasn’t exactly going to go picking men up at a bar.’ 

He’s reminded unwillingly of how close they have been without him, and how he still can’t shake the idea that they’re involved without him. It serves him right. He doesn’t deserve closeness if he cannot ask for it honestly, or even speak about it afterwards. He wants honesty but he doesn’t care if it’s hurting Gladio. What does that make him, then?

A terrible friend, mostly.

‘So you wanted me but also could’ve been okay with Noct or Prompto. Okay then. Sure, I guess I should’ve seen that coming.’

Ignis risks a glance towards him and finds him with his hands behind his head, eyes squinted shut as he faces upwards, into the sky. Moments pass. It really is a nice area in which they’re camping. The haven floor is clean and flat. It’s quiet, apart from the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional bird.

‘I get the wedding messed you up,’ Gladio says eventually. ‘And I’m not going to throw away our friendship for something bullshit like this. I don’t want to be mad at you. But you know it really fucking hurt, right?’

‘I know,’ Ignis says. ‘I can only hope… at some point, you’ll be able to forgive me.’

‘Ah, shit,’ Gladio says, and grabs Ignis in a sideways hug that Ignis is too surprised by to escape. ‘I said I wasn’t gonna forget it, not that I wasn’t gonna forgive. You’re a mess, Scientia, you know that?’

‘I’m somewhat aware,’ Ignis manages, and even while the contact is alarming it’s also familiar, deeply and intimately so. He ends up buried against Gladio’s side, selfishly enjoying the sheer bulk and strength of him.

He’s still there when Noct and Prompto return, damp and muddy and with twigs in their hair and clothes. Ignis is too tired to move — he thinks he might have even dozed off against Gladio’s side, though he hopes not, because that would mean Gladio would have had to have sat there, propping him up — so he simply smiles and doesn’t react to their raised eyebrows and jabbing elbows.

He cooks dinner and they sit around the fire and chat and laugh, play games and bicker about what they’ll do tomorrow, and it’s like they’ve been doing this forever. Camping under the sky rather than Insomnia’s Wall, just the four of them. Despite his fears he fits back in with them seamlessly, and he loves them all fiercely, wildly. He will do anything to stay with them. Only a day in and that he’d felt left out is seeming more and more like an absurd dream that’s fading away in the morning light.

He nods off in his chair after dinner, and is embarrassed to be woken up for bedtime, like either a child or an old man. Someone — Ignis suspects Prompto — has done the dishes for him, so he gets into his pyjamas, brushes his teeth, and crawls into the tent, where he falls asleep almost instantly. At some point he’s woken by the others making themselves comfortable around him; he rolls over, finds Noct next to him, and drifts back off to sleep.

The following days come and go like the summer sun. They go fishing, and Noct manages to goad them all into making it a competition, which he wins by far. They get lost and have to rush back to the haven before the sun sets, and the stress and panic bubble over into contagious laughter once they’re safe. They rent chocobos, of which Prompto takes countless photos and Ignis finds himself extremely charmed by despite himself. They collect wild ingredients and climb rocks and lie about in the sun, at least after being subjected to Ignis and his sun cream. Ignis favours Gladio where he can, to try and make it up to him. Gladio, if his actions are anything to go by, has already forgiven him.

Just thinking about it makes Ignis weak with relief. It’s terrible to consider he’d been so close to losing him as a friend, and he shies from it, unable to even think of what might have been. It would have been his own fault. It doesn’t bear thinking of.

Each night he curls up between Noct and Prompto and when Prompto creeps closer — asleep? Half asleep? Entirely awake? — to play big spoon, he does not push him away. Prompto’s body behind him makes him yearn for something. Sex? Physical contact? Friendship, or romance? He can’t tell. Maybe he just wants Prompto.

He wants Noct and Gladio, too. He tells himself that merely being in their presence is enough. He can’t afford to damage any of his relationships like he almost damaged his one with Gladio.

There’s a fishing cabin at the lake Noct wanted to go to, so they stay there in real beds and take proper showers, sluicing off sweat and dirt and whatever gets left from dried lake water. It has a proper kitchen, if with very limited supplies, and Ignis cooks them up a feast of eel. They have grilled eel, and braised eel with samphire, and eel cooked outside on the firepit in a sweet soy sauce, sweet potatoes baking in the embers. The outside of the cabin is lit by powerful anti-daemon lights, but there are blackout blinds on every window, and once they’re all asleep it’s quieter than Ignis can remember having experienced before. He lies in the dark and can hear his own breathing, and heart, and stomach.

He thinks of the others in their own bedrooms, sleeping, or on their phones, or—

He’s hard. He palms himself through his pyjamas, but he can’t not be aware of how thin the walls are. Noct and Gladio are in rooms immediately beside his own. Would they be able to hear him?

He lasts only a few minutes, lying still and attempting to will his erection away, before giving in and shoving his pyjamas down far enough to grasp himself. He tugs at his cock roughly, imagining that the others hear him, and they want him, and they come in—

It’s confusing, in his arousal, that he cannot decide which of them he wants. His fantasy flicks between them, like switching tabs on the porn he’s watching. He wants Gladio, because he knows exactly what Gladio’s hand on his cock feels like. He wants Prompto, his eagerness and heart. He wants Noct, because he always wants Noct.

He comes gasping and biting back his moans, sweat making the bedsheets stick to him. Guilt clings and follows him into sleep.

It’s nice having a bed of his own, Ignis thinks, but he doesn’t object when they all move back out to the haven a night early. The tent is crowded, and smells, and everyone but Ignis is hopeless at keeping their belongings tidy, instead scattering them across the tent like confetti.

He can’t remember the last time he’s been this happy. It is, therefore, a good thing that nothing happens until the last day.

The inevitable downswing is already approaching, Ignis thinks, judging by the way Noct is snippy when Gladio tells him to pack up his things. Prompto is quieter than he has been, and Gladio is grouchy. That tonight he’ll be back in his uncle’s house is overwhelming, so he is careful to not think about it.

It’s likely that he’s also affected by their imminent departure and simply isn’t self-aware enough to pinpoint how, though it will be obvious to the others. Is he ploughing through everyone else’s withdrawal by being aggressively optimistic? Has he made more puns than usual? It’s frustrating that he can’t strong arm the others into being happy on their last day, but he can’t, no matter how much he tries or wishes he could.

There’s an obvious tension in the air as they pack. Ignis reads it as unwillingness to return home; they have, after all, unanimously agreed to blow past their previously agreed time of departure, and instead stay later and arrive back later. The bright sun and gentle breeze, the clean air, makes it impossible to not want to stay. The lack of crowds and duties and work deadlines are gloriously freeing. There’s no one else around; they’re perfectly alone together.

Gladio and Noct are dismantling the tent; Prompto and Ignis, joint winners of last night’s card game, relax on their backs on the grassy bank of the river. Prompto is going red in the sun, Ignis can see. His skin is sheened with sweat, all over his bare arms and his neck, down to the collar of his shirt and below.

Too late, Ignis realises that he’s been caught staring. Prompto doesn’t look creeped out, though. He’s grinning, squinting because the sun is in his eyes, and he rolls over onto one hip to be closer to Ignis, so close they’re almost touching.

‘Like what you see, huh?’ he asks, low and lazy, but Ignis can tell he’s nervous, too.

Ignis doesn’t know how to react. He does like what he sees, he wants to say — he likes all of Prompto — but he can’t start a relationship with anyone. He’s married; surely Prompto knows he can’t do anything. And he cannot do to Prompto what he did with Gladio.

If it’d been a joke Prompto could have brushed it off. He doesn’t. He withdraws abruptly and laughs, panicked.

‘Man, of course you don’t, hah, what a stupid question. I’m sorry.’

‘Prompto—’

‘Shit, sorry, just — you’re a good guy, do me a favour and pretend that didn’t happen and we’re cool, right?’

‘Prompto, sit down.’

Prompto, from where he’s scrambling to his feet, pauses.

‘Please wait.’ Ignis touches his wrist, the one that doesn’t have the wristband, suddenly afraid Prompto will leave and they’ll never get to talk about this again. His heart is beating wildly. ‘Talk to me. I know it’s awkward, but if you leave now — it’s presumptuous, and entitled of me, but I’d like to know how you feel.’

Prompto sits back down, if with more space between them than before. He tears up tufts of grass between his fingers. ‘I thought — after how close we’ve been, that… shit, I thought it’d be okay, your marriage didn’t mean anything, no chance for babies between us, right? I didn’t think it through. I just — I — ha, that’s the last time I listen to Noct’s dating advice, right?’

‘Noct?’ Ignis asks, because the idea that Noct could see something between Ignis and Prompto is immediately distressing.

‘We thought — we all thought you were…’ Prompto trails off. He sounds close to tears, and Ignis wishes selfishly he could fix that, wipe away his unhappiness, change everything just so he could be smiling again. ‘You’d been so close to all of us. You cuddled up to me! Every night! The way you looked at us. And you seemed so—’

Prompto gestures, then rubs at his eyes. He’s not crying, but he looks miserable and humiliated, like he doesn’t want to be anywhere near Ignis.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ignis says, helpless. ‘I hadn’t realised. After spending so much time with my uncle, I must have got carried away in enjoying being with you.’

Prompto takes a deep breath. ‘Okay. Okay, yeah, no, gonna take a time out. Hold on,’ he says. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He gets up and leaves, and Ignis doesn’t stop him. He lies back down and closes his eyes, feeling the grass on his hands, his neck above his collar. What if he just ruined his friendship with Prompto? What if it affects all of their opinions of him? The time passing is torturous.

‘Hey,’ Prompto says, from somewhere above his head. ‘I’m back.’

Ignis sits up, and Prompto slumps down beside him. ‘Thank you,’ Ignis says, for lack of anything else to say.

‘Dude, don’t apologise,’ Prompto says. ‘I was the one coming onto you.’

‘Regardless,’ Ignis says, ‘it seems there’s been a misunderstanding, for which I am not blameless.’

‘Yeah. Misunderstanding, right.’ Prompto sighs and rolls onto his belly on the grass. ‘So, okay, I guess I’m the scapegoat here because everyone else sucks. Not you! Noct and Gladio. They suck. And we’d all recently got closer, and you’ve been closer, and cuddlier, and Iggy, you never cuddle. You just seemed so happy and we all thought you’d want… more.’

‘You make it sound like it’s not just the two of us who’d be involved in this.’

‘No. No, it’s — we haven’t _talked_ about it, and it’s just been a couple of, you know. Smooches. Here and there. The three of us. And we thought of course you’d want in. Because you’re Iggy.’

Ignis takes a deep breath. So he’d been correct when he’d thought they were involved without him. It shouldn’t be surprising; he’s known Noct and Gladio almost his whole life, so of course he’s often accurate with these things. It still hurts, like when humilation cuts too deep and becomes painful. ‘I strongly advise you to communicate with each other,’ he says. ‘I… cannot be a part of it. My marriage prevents me from joining in. And I think — my selfishness means I cannot mediate your communication. It would only go badly. I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah,’ Prompto says. ‘Makes sense. I wouldn’t want to do that, either. Fuck, Iggy, I screwed up. I’m sorry. I thought it wouldn’t matter, you’d be able to join in, but I didn’t even ask anything first. I’m a royal screw-up. I’m sorry.’

‘Did the others set you up to it?’

‘I mean, it wasn’t like that. I wanted to. We thought — haha, would you believe, we fought over who’d get to do this, because it’d mean they’d get to be the first to… you know. You.’

Ignis bows his head. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he says, ‘if not for my marriage, we would be having a very different conversation, and there was no way for you to know the restrictions of my marriage.’

‘Yeah. Yeah. I’m still sorry though.’

‘As am I.’

‘Hey, Iggy,’ Prompto says, after a moment. ‘Tell me to fuck off if you want, but… since we’re heading back tonight, can we … you know, hug again? Now? No funny business, just… eh. Hugs.’

Ignis wants to tell him it’s inadvisable. He wants to explain how he’s trying to move out of his uncle’s house, and he can’t do anything to risk his image before then, but he feels if he does he’ll just come across as protesting too hard. He’s already admitted he wants it, after all.

There’s no one to see him out here. And he wants, so desperately—

Ignis reaches over and grabs Prompto, hauling him over bodily until he’s lying on his back between Ignis’ legs, his head on Ignis’ chest. Prompto’s body feels very small as Ignis wraps his arms around him, tugging him in closer.

‘You’re going to burn,’ Ignis says, and Prompto grins up at him.


	6. Chapter 6

When Ignis returns to his uncle’s house, he finds his bed is gone.

It’s late at night, technically early the next morning, but since it’s the weekend the decision to stay later and resign themselves to a lack of sleep hadn’t seemed bad at the time. Ignis’ uncle is up regardless, appearing behind Ignis as Ignis stands in his bedroom doorway and stares in dull resignation.

It’s an incredibly transparent, ridiculous maneuver, but, Ignis supposes, it’s still going to work.

‘Oh, about that,’ his uncle says. ‘I ordered a new one while you were away, but there’s a delay. I was quite cross, but there’s nothing I could do, I’m afraid. You know how it is with companies these days. No customer service.’

‘I will sleep on the sofa,’ Ignis says, even though it’s useless.

‘Of course you won’t,’ his uncle says. ‘Don’t be foolish. Now come on, my bed is more than big enough for the both of us, even with all your muscle.’ He grips Ignis’ arm tightly, and Ignis follows him to his bed.

The bed is warm; his uncle must have been in it, even if he hadn’t been sleeping, when Ignis got home. He lies straight and stiff, waiting for something to happen, but his uncle’s breathing goes even and deep, rasping a little but not snoring. Eventually, Ignis also falls asleep; he sleeps deeply, waking up with his uncle not yet awake beside him. If he’d been touched in any way — but there’s no way to tell. Ignis gets up and showers, hoping fervently that the noise doesn’t disturb his uncle, or if it does it doesn’t draw him into the bathroom. 

After the shower, Ignis goes to sit at his desk in his old room. It’s Sunday. He could go to Noct’s, but Noct is undoubtedly enjoying a lie-in, and would prefer not to be disturbed. He could send a text Gladio or Prompto to see if they need anything, but he doubts they do — not from him, anyway. It would be awkward, so soon after he’s rebuffed them. His prior certainty that things hadn’t changed between them is now in ruins. How could he have been so stupid?

They didn’t tell him whether or not they’re progressing in a relationship without him. He doesn’t want to know. Either way it will hurt.

He goes to his office, taking the long commute before his uncle can wake. Maybe if he catches up on some work now the following week will not be as punishing as it could be. The trains on the weekend, this early, are silent and empty. He drafts out the contents of what he’ll say when he phones Astator, Carcer’s youngest sibling, to ask her to arrange a meeting with Iudex, but can’t bring himself to call. What if he’s denied at the first step?

Public transport is busier when Ignis makes his way home in the evening. His uncle had called him to tell him to be home for dinner, which will be at seven sharp. Ignis is going to be late, but only by a few minutes, and maybe not even that if he hurries. He hates that he’s hurrying, but he does it anyway.

He makes it back on time. His uncle is watching him from the dining table as Ignis lets himself in, and he smiles and claps once when Ignis straightens from untying his shoes. ‘Just on time,’ he says, and nods to Optio who comes from the kitchen to lay the dishes on the table. ‘Thank you,’ he says graciously, and is already eating by the time Ignis sits down.

‘About the bed,’ Ignis says, after a while. His uncle looks up at him but doesn’t stop eating. ‘Did you know when the new one will arrive?’

His uncle finishes his mouthful, as though the question is a difficult one. ‘I’m sorry to say I have no idea. The company simply said there was a problem with the order and they’ll deal with it as soon as they could.’

‘I see,’ Ignis says. ‘In the mean time, I’ll look to see about getting a temporary replacement.’

‘Oh, no need,’ his uncle says airly. ‘To be perfectly honest, it’s rather nice sharing a bed with someone, don’t you think?’

‘Yes,’ Ignis says without thinking — or rather, without thinking about his uncle. The memories of the cramped tent, the warmth and softness of sleeping bodies, surrounded by them, kept close to them, and he wants and _wants_ —

‘Who are you thinking of?’ his uncle asks, and it snaps Ignis back to reality. ‘You had a very fond smile for a moment there, and as much as I flatter myself I doubt you were thinking of me.’

He says it coyly, but it’s an attack. If he can accuse Ignis of being unfaithful, he can accuse Ignis of being someone who will cheat his family by marriage and give his inheritance to illegitimate children.

‘No one,’ Ignis says, and forces his expression to be politely puzzled even while his heart is pounding. ‘Forgive me; I didn’t even realise I was smiling.’

‘Are you sure?’ his uncle asks, eyebrows raised, but then drops it, dismissive, like it didn’t matter either way. ‘Tell me about your little trip, then. I’ve never been outside Insomnia, myself.’

They’re getting ready for bed, Ignis brushing his teeth, when Ignis’ uncle comes up behind him and places his hands on Ignis’ hips. ‘Ignis,’ he says. ‘Did you know that the consul-general’s position in Zegnautus is opening soon? Our current man is retiring soon, or so I’ve heard.’

Ignis, mouth full of toothpaste, cannot reply. An illegitimate child, born in Niflheim, would struggle to inherit anything from an Insomnian family.

‘If you’re getting tired of Insomnia,’ his uncle continues, and in the mirror Ignis can see him smile as he presses a kiss to Ignis’ neck, ‘you would have a fine chance for the consul position.’

He leaves before Ignis finishes brushing his teeth. A threat, and an obvious one, Ignis thinks as he washes his face, trying desperately to stop his thoughts racing and becoming irrational and unhelpful. Is it only meant to keep Ignis on his toes, never carried out, or is it already in motion? Does his uncle know it’s only a matter of time before Ignis leaves him, and has decided that he would rather be the one to choose when and how Ignis leaves? To where he leaves?

He would rather stay in his uncle’s house than go to Niflheim, he knows with unflinching certainty. At least here he can be with Noct, Gladio, and Prompto, if not in the way they all want.

He should have phoned Astator already. He shouldn’t just be waiting for everyone else to move the pieces into place while he sits and waits, but he’s paralysed.

Could his uncle have him sent to Zegnautus? Could Iudex? She is the head of his household, but Ignis is so deeply connected to Noct and the Crown that surely Noct would be able to keep him here, in Insomnia. Would Regis weigh in? How much would Iudex risk to go against the Crown’s wishes? How much would Regis want to interfere in family politics?

There’s too much at risk. A fraction of a chance he could be made to leave Insomnia is too much. He can’t not try and leave his uncle’s house, but he can’t risk getting sent away, either.

‘Carcer,’ he says carefully as he gets into bed beside his uncle, ‘I would always prefer to stay in Insomnia. You do realise that, don’t you?’

‘Would you?’ his uncle asks, like he doesn’t quite believe him. He’s sitting up, reading, and he glances sideways at Ignis but doesn’t put down his book.

‘Of course,’ Ignis says, rolling to face his uncle, propped up on one elbow. ‘The last place I would want to live in Insomnia is still above anywhere in Niflheim. Wouldn’t anyone think that?’ He says it laughingly, like it’s a joke and not a plea.

‘I sincerely hope my house is not the last place you’d want to live in Insomnia,’ his uncle says. 

‘Of course I didn’t mean that.’

‘Didn’t you?’

Ignis shifts closer. ‘I would never want to move out of your house and go to Niflheim,’ he says, and doesn’t need to fake the certainty in his voice.

‘Damning with faint praise, aren’t we,’ Ignis’ uncle says. He finally puts his book down and looks at Ignis properly. He’s aware that he has every upper hand in this conversation, and he knows that Ignis knows it, too. There’s nothing Ignis has to bargain with. Caught under his green eyes, unable to reply, Ignis is suddenly terrified of what his uncle will do to him — reach out, pin him bodily, strip him like skinning a live rabbit—

‘Ah, well,’ his uncle says, and reaches over to turn off the light. In the dark Ignis feels rather than sees him settle down into bed. ‘I’m sure we can discuss this sometime when it’s not so late.’

Feeling cast adrift, Ignis also lies down. He is hyper-sensitive of the minute shifts in the mattress as his uncle moves, and the sound of his breathing. As his eyes become adjusted to the darkness he stares at the ceiling, afraid to look sideways in case he sees his uncle looking back at him.

At some point later he wakes, bleary. The bed is moving, little jolts, and Ignis can’t quite comprehend what is happening to make it do that. It is an earthquake?

Then he hears the harsh breathing, and the sound of rustling fabric, and quieter than that: the damp sound of skin on skin.

His stomach drops. He is frozen. 

Has his uncle realised he’s awake? Had he masturbated last night as well? Ignis cannot move, cannot do anything but lie still and listen to his uncle. If he gets up and goes to the bathroom, will his uncle wait to continue when he comes back? It seems likely; he cannot be doing this without knowing Ignis will have to lie there and listen to it.

The rhythm pauses then changes, faster and shorter. His uncle grunts softly. If Ignis pretends he’s asleep, will his uncle do it again tomorrow night, and the night after that, until Ignis is forced to acknowledge it?

Even if he wants to, he cannot move. Like stone has been cast on him, his body no longer obeys him. He’s still lying with his eyes closed, unable to open them, when his uncle groans louder, and the mattress judders beneath them before it stills.

Ignis lies there, waiting. His uncle’s breathing slows. The bed shifts as he adjusts himself and his clothes, and turns over. He doesn’t say anything, or move closer to Ignis. Eventually his breaths deepen and he falls asleep.

The next morning Ignis makes it to Noct’s before he has time to stop and think. Noct isn’t awake yet; he sits at the table and puts his head in his hands. He feels slow and stupid. Some of that is probably lack of sleep; some of it is undoubtedly his own disgust, coating him like syrup. How could he have just lain there like that, and done nothing? He should have done something, even just to let his uncle know he was awake. His skin crawls at the memory.

Why is this the tipping point, when the touching, the gazing and the kissing, hadn’t been? He doesn’t know, but the certainty of it sits like a weight on his chest. He is also certain that he needs to get out of his uncle’s house.

It should be easy. He’d assumed it would be easy. But what if it isn’t? Why can’t he think clearly?

His best bet should be convincing Iudex that his work here in Insomnia, with Noct, is invaluable to the family. He has already proved his loyalty by agreeing to the marriage, so why would he betray them now, when the stakes are so much higher? No — it’s much better for everyone involved if he is allowed to carry on life as comfortably as he can, while respecting the marriage, and that means being able to live closer to work.

The argument seems airtight to him, but then, what will it sound like to Iudex? Has his uncle already talked to her? Suggested to her that Ignis seems likely to cheat on him and the marriage agreement? He doesn’t know. He can’t know. Who would tell him? He needs to act to protect himself, but he’s working blind and a single misstep may cost him everything. He needs to do something, be productive and quick and clever, but he doesn’t know how.

He needs to cook breakfast for Noct and himself, as well as brief Noct on the content of a couple of meetings he’s going to have to sit in on. He should also be prepping himself for work — trimming down on the endless reports and fine print he has to read through, flicking through the applications of a few new potential staff who’re being interviewed in the afternoon, reviewing what Noct is set to be doing and deciding whether he ought to be doing something else instead.

It seems insurmountable, even though he knows he’s more than capable of it. Or he should be. He was, once.

Breakfast first. Ignis goes to the kitchen and puts on rice, cuts up fruit, and turns on the grill to pre-heat. At least this is simple, routine. He will cook some eggs, too, and there is leftover chicken in the fridge. He goes to Noct’s bedroom next, knocking on the door before entering — a pure formality, since it won’t even wake him. Noct groans as Ignis opens the blinds, but he still needs Ignis to shake him by the shoulder and pull the covers down from over his head before he actually wakes enough not to fall straight back asleep.

‘Good morning,’ Ignis says, and Noct groans again and curls up. His hair is getting long; he’ll need to have it cut soon. Ignis runs his fingers over Noct’s head, feeling his hair, soft and thick, knowing Noct is still asleep enough to enjoy the contact. He goes back to the kitchen.

He wants to have got into bed with Noct. He wants to run his fingers through his hair to comb out every snag and snarl. He wants Noct’s body close to his, wrapped up in his arms, back aching and chest heaving as he strokes himself—

It is exactly the wrong thing to think about. Ignis grips the knife he’s using to prepare the fish: red bream and star-fish, salted, plus delicate silver herring. He needs to concentrate on what he needs to be doing, not allowing himself to — to _creep_ on Noct while he sleeps.

The rice is done and the first of the fish are going under the grill when Noct emerges from the bedroom. ‘Hey,’ he says, mumbling it into his fist as he rubs his mouth.

‘Good morning,’ Ignis says, putting some dishes in the sink to do while the fish cooks. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Eh,’ Noct says, and slouches onto the sofa where he pulls out his phone. Since camping, working with Noct is almost surprising in its mundanity. Ignis had thought it would be awkward, dreading being with Noct after the revelations, but it’s not awkward. It’s entirely normal, and Ignis revells in it.

Noct is more awake when the food is on the table. Ignis waits for him to sit before starting to eat, as he always does, but when he does start he finds himself eating ravenously, barely tasting the food as he gulps it down. He hadn’t realised how hungry he is.

Noct notices as well. ‘You okay?’ he asks, and it’s mostly curious but still enough to make Ignis twitch in embarrassment at having been caught. ‘I thought you were just always starving in the morning, but you weren’t last week.’

‘Merely hungry,’ he says, forcing himself to slow down. ‘My uncle tends to have lighter dinners, and, well, as you see, I’m having to compensate.’

He tries to say it lightly, as a joke, but Noct frowns. ‘Is that okay? Why don’t you just eat more?’

‘It’s fine,’ Ignis says, and he places another piece of fish onto Noct’s plate before helping himself to one. ‘I will be blunt; you are considerably better dinner company than my uncle. As for my eating habits? Goodness knows Gladio wouldn’t get off my back if I started losing weight.’

It’s true, and Noct knows this intimately well — as part of his job, Gladio keeps an eye on Noct’s physical health, including his weight — which is probably why he drops it so readily. ‘I guess,’ he says. He looks awkward. ‘It’s nice eating with you, though. So I don’t mind.’

He’s so earnest, Ignis can’t help but smile around his mouthful. ‘I enjoy it also,’ he says.

They go to work together. Noct heads to his father’s office, and Ignis goes to his own. Without Noct, and with a full day of work ahead of him, he suddenly feels a lot more tired. The memory of lying in bed next to his uncle comes back to him, like water creeping under a door. Ignis ignores it.

In three days time there will be a meeting concerning foreign policies. Ignis is not formally invited, but Noct is, and at this point it’s well-known and accepted that Ignis may appear in Noct’s place to most anything. The foreign policies don’t interest him, though they’re always worth keeping tabs on. What does interest him is that Utibilis, secretary to the director-general of the Niflheim Affairs Department, will be present, and while his and Utibilis’ paths do not tend to cross, Ignis has found her to be the rare combination of both professional and good-natured when they do. Importantly, she similarly seems to find him not unpleasant to be around.

He can ask her about the Niflheim consul-general and whether he truly is retiring. She will tell him only what she can and no more, but she won’t tell anyone else he’s been asking if he requests that of her. She may also tell him, if unwittingly, whether or not his uncle has started the motions of submitting Ignis to become the new consul-general.

It won’t stop him from being chosen if he has been, but it’s a step closer to it. He needs to know as much as he can, as soon as he can. He can’t win by being ignorant.

If he can win at all.

He has to believe he can. He managed to as a child. He will be capable again now.

That night, in bed, he still can’t move as his uncle masturbates beside him. He can feel the way they’d kissed earlier, open-mouthed, slow and sensual. With practice, Ignis can tell he’s improving. They no longer bump noses, or click their teeth together. He doesn’t awkwardly follow his uncle’s motions or simply stand and do nothing, but can tentatively respond.

He shouldn’t improve quickly and encourage his uncle to escalate and escalate, but he can’t stop thinking that his uncle will punish him for it if he doesn’t.

It’s easier to submit than to push. All he needs to do is make sure he remains in Insomnia until he can get out, with no risk of retaliation once out. He needs to keep his uncle thinking that he’s not going to put up a fight. Once he has all the cards stacked in his favour then he can move, but not before.

His uncle still frightens him.

The night after that, his uncle is masturbating when Ignis makes a sound — an exhale sharper than it ought to be, or he swallows more loudly than a sleeping person would, perhaps — and his uncle stops.

It’s too late, Ignis knows, but he tries to make his breathing sound deep and slow and only makes it shake.

‘Ignis? Did I wake you?’ his uncle says, and his voice is thick, and he has to swallow to clear his throat.

‘Yes,’ Ignis says, because there is nothing else he can say.

He flinches when his uncle’s hand, hot and moist, gropes at his arm. It slides down until it has him by the wrist, then his uncle tugs Ignis’ hand to his groin.

‘Feel,’ he says. ‘You can’t blame me, with such a handsome young man in my bed. Go on, feel what you’ve done to me.’

Ignis had been lying on his back, but is pulled over onto one side so he’s facing his uncle. He keeps his eyes closed as his hand is brushed up against his uncle’s cock, wet and hard as it bumps against the backs of his fingers.

‘Since it’s your fault, Ignis,’ his uncle says, ‘I think you should help me out.’ He pushes Ignis’ hand against his cock more insistently, but Ignis tugs back, and doesn’t uncurl his fist.

‘I don’t want—’ Ignis starts to say, but his uncle interrupts him.

‘It really doesn’t matter what you want. You can use your hand or your mouth.’

He can’t disobey; not now. Not when he needs to keep his uncle thinking he is obedient. Ignis opens his hand and grips his uncle’s cock. It’s large, larger than he’d been expecting in as much as he’d expected anything, hard and damp, and while his hand recognises the shape from pleasuring himself, there is no corresponding sensory feedback — no pleasure, no sense of pressure, no guidance on what feels good and what doesn’t. The angle of his wrist is wrong; he struggles to position his loose fist so it strokes along the length of his uncle’s cock. 

‘Tighter,’ his uncle says, and he holds his own hand around Ignis’, guiding the motion. It yanks at Ignis’ wrist, forcing him to edge closer to relieve the pressure on his arm. The weight and length of his uncle’s cock doesn’t feel real. He can hear his uncle breathe, ragged and hard, and after a moment his uncle starts thrusting into his hand. 

Ignis’ gorge rises. He thinks he’s going to throw up. He can smell the musky, sex smell of naked genitalia wafting out with the humid air from under the bed covers.

When his uncle comes, cock twitching in his hand and his uncle drawing in a sharp breath, Ignis catches the come in his palm and immediately regrets it. Hot stickiness covers his skin. He tries to swallow down the nausea that’s sticking to the back of his throat, but he cannot clear it. Purely on reflex he draws a pack of tissues from the armiger and pulls out one with his free hand and his teeth, and wipes his dirtied hand on it.

He’s struggling to breathe. He doesn’t think he can stand to be in the bed for a second longer, doesn’t think he can be in his own skin because the urge to scratch and tear his way out of it is unbearable. His own body revolts him. He’s turning to roll, stumble up and out of bed, but his uncle slings an arm over his waist. Ignis freezes.

‘Stop fussing,’ his uncle says, and he yawns. ‘Get back to sleep or you’ll be tired in the morning.’

He might as well have told Ignis to fly to the moon. He follows his own advice and falls asleep quickly, but Ignis lies there, motionless, feeling the weight of his uncle’s arm on him, pinning him down.


	7. Chapter 7

Ignis calls Astator as soon as he sits down in his office. She picks up after what feels like a short geological age.

‘Yes, hello?’ she says briskly. She’d been considerably less rude the last time he talked to her; Ignis feels his heart sink.

‘Astator,’ he says. ‘Good morning. I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.’

‘Nothing important,’ she says. ‘Was there something you needed?’

Well, if she wants to get to the point, he won’t stop her. ‘I was thinking it was high time I visited Iudex,’ he says. ‘I have not paid her the proper respects as my mother-in-law.’

‘Hm,’ Astator says, and there’s a lull in the conversation. ‘Well, that can probably happen.’

‘That’s good,’ Ignis says when she pauses again.

‘I’ll have to ask,’ Astator says, sighing. ‘She’s been very busy recently, so I’m not sure when, exactly, she’ll have time for you.’

‘All you can do is ask,’ Ignis says.

‘I’ll call back when I know. Tomorrow, perhaps. Is there anything else?’

‘No, nothing,’ Ignis says. ‘I appreciate it greatly. Thank you, Astator.’

She hangs up without another word. Ignis puts his phone down carefully, breathing out. One of his legs is trembling, not quite jumping in place under his desk. He tried his best. Astator might have been prickly but she will do her job, and Iudex will want to check up on him personally. That he’ll get his audience is without doubt. Whether he gets it soon is another question entirely.

There are still other things he needs to do. The meeting over Niflheim policies is in the afternoon, and he’ll have to catch Utibilis before either she leaves or someone else manages to get her. She is not in high demand, so he thinks it unlikely, but he’s left too much to chance recently.

He’s eating lunch and reading reports when there’s a knock on his door.

‘Yes?’ he calls out, and his secretary pokes her head into the office.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but Mr Argentum is here, asking if you’re free.’

It should be a pleasant surprise, but Ignis still hasn’t talked to Prompto properly since that last day camping. For a moment he thinks he could tell Prompto he is too busy, then feels guilty for even considering it. ‘Please, let him in.’

She leaves, and a moment later Prompto comes in, carrying something in one hand. He puts it down on the table like an offering: a box, containing a hazelnut cream pastry from a nearby bakery.

‘Hey,’ Prompto says. ‘Heard you were hungry, so…’

Ignis blinks, and doesn’t understand until he does. Noct must have mentioned that he is hungry in the mornings.

It’s empty calories, but that doesn’t matter. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and he opens up the box, pushing it to the middle of his desk. ‘Sit,’ he says and gets two forks from his desk drawer.

‘Dude, no, I’ve already eaten.’ Prompto puts his hands up when Ignis offers him a fork, but takes it weakly when Ignis leans over and pushes it into his hand.

‘And I’m half-way through eating,’ he says. ‘Come on, a bite won’t hurt.’

They share the pastry before talking about anything else. It’s delicious, delicate and airy, and between them it’s demolished rapidly.

‘Okay,’ Prompto says, after he puts down his fork and sighs in satisfaction. ‘Okay, so, that was an apology cake and now I’m gonna say it, too: I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘You know.’ Prompto gestures with one hand, like he still has the fork and is using it as a conductor’s baton. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and out of everything that could have happened, you know, I’m pretty sure that you wanting it and us wanting it, but you _can’t_ because, you know. It’s… the worst way it could have gone, right?’

‘Is it,’ Ignis murmurs. It isn’t a question, but Prompto answers it anyway.

‘I mean, yeah. If you hadn’t wanted it it’d suck but we’d all still have what we wanted. Or didn’t want. Now, no one can have what they want.’

Prompto catches himself. ‘Not to say I’m blaming you or anything,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m pretty sure you’re the worst off here. And when I say pretty sure I mean definitely sure.’

‘Prompto,’ Ignis says, and presses his fingertips against his eyes. ‘I really do despise being pitied.’

‘I’m not! Or I guess I am but only a tiny bit. Or — no, ignore that. What I mean is, I’m not here to bitch about it. Promise. I really came here because we’re bros, right? Whatever happens. And bros bring each other cakes and shit, and are around over lunch if other bros want to talk, or… something.’

Ignis is smiling, even though he’s sure what he’s feeling is sadness and the bitter way unfairness feels. He’s very tired. ‘Prompto,’ he says, ‘I absolutely refuse to make this afternoon a scene from a romantic drama, where I kiss you passionately over my desk only for someone to walk in and see it all. But thank you, nonetheless. I appreciate it greatly.’

‘So you’re saying you don’t want me to leave because I just made it super awkward?’

‘Don’t be foolish,’ Ignis says, and he has to smother the yawn that tears free of his lungs. In front of him, Prompto yawns too. ‘I always appreciate your company.’

‘Didn’t say that when I was kicking your ass in Boulevard Brawler last week.’

‘I almost always appreciate your company,’ Ignis says, correcting himself, and he earns a toothy grin from Prompto. ‘How are you doing, anyway? Don’t ask about me, it’s all work.’

‘Eh,’ Prompto says. ‘I’m good. My mom is going to be back for a week next month! So we’re going to do something, IDK what though. I think there’s going to be that flower show, that should be good. I think she likes flowers.’

‘The annual Florists Show,’ Ignis says. ‘It’s a spectacular sight, or so I’ve heard. I imagine your mother would enjoy it immensely.’

‘Yeah. I tried asking her what she wanted to do, but she was all, “I just want to spend time with you”, and “Whatever fits in with your schedule”. Which is super nice of her, but like, damn, I’m trying to do something for her, you know?’

‘It sounds like she’d appreciate anything you can manage, so long as she has your company,’ Ignis says. ‘In which case, you might as well do something that makes it special for you as much as for her. Go to the Florists Show, or a photography gallery, or window shopping for camera parts. If you’re happy I’m sure she’ll enjoy herself more than if you’re miserable trying to cater to her only.’

‘Stop being so wise,’ Prompto says, and covers his face with his hands, tilting back in his chair. He groans, dragging out the sound for effect. ‘I need to get her something, too, and I have no idea what. I suck at gifts.’

‘Well, I can confirm I appreciated the pasty you brought me,’ Ignis says, which gets him a smile as Prompto rocks his chair forwards and plants his elbows on the desk. ‘Though I would suggest getting your mother something more than a dessert.’

‘You’re easy to buy gifts for,’ Prompto says. ‘I actually know you.’

‘Thank you,’ Ignis says, earnestly, which of course makes it awkward.

‘Anyway,’ Prompto says, ‘what about your folks? How’re they?’

‘They’re fine,’ Ignis says, because they probably are. He’d most likely be told if there was something very bad happening. ‘They were, well, not best pleased with my marriage. I suppose we haven’t been talking much since.’

‘Ah, shit,’ Prompto says, always sensitive to family issues. ‘I’m sorry, Iggy.’

‘Please don’t worry. We rarely talked anyway.’

‘Yeah, if that was meant to make me feel better, it failed.’

Ignis laughs and reaches forward to pat Prompto on the head. ‘Like I said before,’ he says as Prompto mock-grimaces and swats his hand away. ‘I already have all the family I need.’

The meeting on foreign politics is incredibly boring, and seems largely to inform people that things have already been decided and no further matters need be discussed. Ignis spends a large amount of it planning out the work he ought to have been doing instead of attending the meeting.

Afterwards, he packs up as quickly as is polite and makes his way to cut off Utibilis before she can leave. Thankfully, she’s alone, and he falls into step beside her.

‘Scientia,’ she says, ‘I haven’t seen you in a while. What are you doing here?’

‘Representing His Highness,’ Ignis says, with a smile and a playful wince. ‘He was unfortunately tied up, so I get to be here instead.’

‘Oh, lucky you,’ she says, laying on the sarcasm thick. ‘Hopefully not taking too much of your time. I hear you’re up to your ears these days.’

‘Sometimes I get it down to my nose,’ Ignis says. There’s no point in being obtuse; Utibilis will know he’s speaking to her for something. ‘Like today, in fact. If you have time, do you think you could spare a moment? There’s a decent enough coffee shop downstairs.’

‘You know how to seduce a woman,’ Utibilis says. ‘All right, I have fifteen or so minutes before they release the hounds on me.’ She follows Ignis as he leads them to the coffee shop.

‘So,’ she says as she sits down. At this time of day the coffee shop, Citadel-run, is mostly empty, but there are still a handful of people around, not including the staff. It’s extremely doubtful anyone will be listening in, but the chance is there, and she knows he’s not a careless person. She’ll recognise it’s not a sensitive issue, then, but depending on what she knows and what his uncle has already set in motion, she may or may not already know what he wants from her. If she does then she must be happy to say it in public, or she would have already insisted on talking somewhere more private.

Ignis takes a drink before he says anything. It is, like he promised, decent enough. It’s neither excellent quality, finely brewed, nor the particular deliciousness of terrible quality canned coffee; Ignis puts his down with a sigh. ‘I would apologise,’ he says, ‘but that won’t make it taste any better.’

‘You should have said it was the best you’ve ever had,’ Utibilis says with a laugh. ‘I don’t drink coffee, as a rule. It all tastes the same to me.’

‘In which case,’ Ignis says, ‘you really should try this absolutely fantastic coffee I found. It truly is the best I’ve ever drunk.’

Utibilis laughs again. ‘All right,’ she says. ‘I can’t waste all day. What was it you wanted to talk about?’

‘Nothing important,’ he says. ‘Well. It was about the Zegnautus consul-general, actually.’ He leaves it open, in case there has been a misunderstanding and she doesn’t want the news of his supposed retirement — if he is, in fact, actually retiring — spread.

‘Ah,’ Utibilis says. ‘I was thinking it would be that. Yes, they’re planning on announcing it in an official sense early next year, but word has got out, needless to say.’

‘More time to try and find a replacement.’

‘Yes. Not many people want it, would you have guessed?’

‘I can imagine,’ Ignis says. So far she hasn’t suggested that she thinks he’s either aiming for it or being aimed for it, and surely she would indicate if she thinks he is in the list of candidates, if only because he is therefore the one person in that list they are both guaranteed to know. ‘Have you potential replacements?’

‘Why, Scientia, got someone in mind for it?’

Ignis spreads his hands in a gesture of appeasement, but he feels uneasy, wishing she’d just say it. Does she think he’s applying, or doesn’t she? ‘Merely curious,’ he says.

It’s a laughable lie, but Utibilis lets it go. ‘It’s early days. Who can say? Other than your uncle poking around, no. But I think they’re going to have to persuade someone to go rather than wait for volunteers.’

There — his uncle. But the way she’s said it makes it sound like she doesn’t think it’s Ignis who’s being put forward.

‘Just poking around?’ Ignis says, and he wants to ask straight, desperately, heart in his throat. He’s waiting for the moment she tells him he’s on the list of candidates like he’d wait to hear the results of an exam he knows he’s failed.

‘Keeping his options open, I imagine,’ Utibilis says, breezily. ‘Tell him, if he’s trying to lure them into offering a few more bonuses with the position, he’s doing a good job. He’s not exactly the most qualified, but he’s the most interested by a long shot, and I don’t see that changing.’

Ignis doesn’t say anything, taking another drink to buy time. She seems to think his uncle is inquiring for his own sake. In which case, it’s almost definite that his uncle isn’t actively working on sending Ignis to Niflheim. He’s keeping options open to make it a real threat, but Ignis being sent away isn’t a foregone conclusion. He will need to be careful, but it’s not yet definite. His uncle still wants him in Insomnia. It’s very possible that he’s either met with resistance from Iudex, or he thinks he will when he tells her. She, after all, wants Ignis not just for his inheritance but also what he can provide through his career with Noct.

‘I’ll inform him of that,’ Ignis says, and tries not to let the utter relief show in his voice or face.

‘What’s he up to, anyway? I know he’s your elder, but goodness, making you run about for him when you’re already worn out looking after that prince of yours.’

‘I was in the right place at the right time,’ Ignis says. She probably doesn’t know of the marriage, and he’s not inclined to tell her or anyone else. ‘And speaking of the prince, I must be off, or I’ll be late. He’s practicing magic this afternoon, and if I’m not there things tend to get rather messy.’

He says it like a joke, because it is. Utibilis pulls a face that says she feels genuinely bad for him, a grimace of pity. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘good luck.’

It’s a reminder that few people know Noct like he does. He has his public image of being shy and gentle and kind, an animal lover, invested in the good of his people but not especially strong-willed or passionate. His passionate side is more well-known inside the Citadel, where people have overheard arguments with his father or Ignis or Gladio, or seen him frustrated and in pain. There the pendulum swings the other way, and Ignis is unpleasantly surprised again and again by people who think he’s petulant and aggressive.

There’s nothing he can say that will change Utibilis’ mind, so he leaves the undrunk half of his coffee on the table and gets up.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ he says as they’re walking out together, ‘if you could not tell anyone I was asking after him. He’s my elder, like you said, but he is proud and he wouldn’t want people thinking he’s incapable.’

Utibilis nods. ‘Of course, of course. And it was good catching up. I hope training goes well.’

They part ways, and Ignis heads down to the magic training rooms where Noct will be waiting for him. His conversation with Utibilis has buoyed him. It’s given him something to work with; he feels safer, more confident. Now that he is more sure of his footing he’s more capable of digging his heels in and pushing back. Even if Iudex proves to be resistant, so long as his uncle isn’t actively working to send him away, he doesn’t need to worry. He can cope with his uncle.

That evening, after finishing dinner, his uncle sets down his cutlery and sits back with a sigh. ‘I heard you were calling Astator,’ he says.

Ignis had known that anything he does related to Iudex will get back to his uncle. There’s still a thrill of fear, and he has to remind himself that his uncle hasn’t already arranged to send him to Niflheim. His uncle doesn’t know about Utibilis.

‘I’ve been in the family for a while, now,’ Ignis says. ‘It’s high time I visited.’

‘That’s true,’ his uncle says. ‘In fact I’d say you should have already gone. You haven’t seen anyone since the wedding.’

‘I’m trying to make amends,’ Ignis says. ‘Hopefully I can visit as soon as is possible.’

‘Indeed,’ his uncle says, and gets up. ‘You’ve been very unfilial, very disrespectful to your family, haven’t you? It’s a shame.’

Ignis closes his eyes briefly, but his uncle is standing there, waiting for him to reply. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’m trying my best to be better by you.’

He doesn’t flinch as his uncle brushes his hand over his head, cupping his jaw and lifting it so he can kiss Ignis.

‘Good to hear,’ his uncle says as he pulls away, and goes to read in bed.

Ignis’ audience with Iudex comes over a week later. They sit and drink tea, Iudex sitting stiff and still like a mummified saint. Ignis tells her about his work, and he doesn’t need to embellish it to make himself sound important to the Crown. Out of all the people who share Noct’s magic, he is by far the most adept, the most skilled, and the best training partner — as well as the most resilient to magical friendly fire. He is indispensable in Noct’s everyday running, from supporting him in debates and tutoring him on politics, to making sure he’s suitably dressed for each occasion. He reports to King Regis himself on the prince’s well-being and progress. Replacing him would be an exercise in futility.

He is an excellent servant of the Crown, and the respect he earns is also respect he earns for his family.

It’s an obvious ploy, but he’s not trying to be subtle. He just needs it to be about work, which is respectable, rather than his marriage, which is not. ‘It would be easier if I could live closer, as I had been,’ he says finally. ‘Finding enough time to work is harder when I travel two hours every day just to get to my office.’

‘You’d like to move out of your husband’s house?’ Iudex asks.

‘It’s not that I’d like to,’ Ignis says. He resists the urge to wipe his palms on his trousers. ‘It would be placing my work as my highest priority, which I’m keen to do at this stage in my career.’

There’s no reason for her to deny him. It’s in her interest he works hard and continues to gain prestige and experience in his job.

‘No,’ Iudex says. ‘No, I think you would be better off staying with your husband.’

The hammer falls; Ignis’ heart clenches hard, enough to be painful. ‘I understand,’ he says, even though he doesn’t, ‘but—’

‘I’m tired,’ Iudex says. ‘Please leave now.’

His hands are shaking when he puts his teacup down. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Thank you for taking the time to see me.’

‘Good night,’ Iudex says, and there’s nothing more that can be said. Ignis bows and goes back to his uncle’s house.


	8. Chapter 8

When Ignis arrives at his uncle’s house, having taken a long, cowardly walk around the area before making it back, it’s late and his uncle is waiting for him in the armchair in the bedroom. Ignis is aware of what his uncle expects to happen. He still rebels against it, if only in his head, shoving the idea away roughly, like it’s a daemon. He knows his uncle knows where he’s been, and more than likely already knows what Iudex told him. Possibly, he knew what she’d say even before Ignis. That he’s waiting for Ignis, in the bedroom, says — perhaps it says nothing.

They are married now, yes, but — as a child, living with his uncle — his uncle had always been sexual but never actually—

Ignis’ uncle smiles and greets Ignis, and he’s still there waiting when Ignis comes back in from the bathroom.

‘Let’s forego pyjamas, I think,’ his uncle says, and all of Ignis’ denials crash down around his head.

Ignis has been naked in front of his friends, his peers, and perfect strangers before. He has been naked in front of his uncle before, as a child and also an adult, in the bath. He’s never got undressed in front of someone before, though, when the point of his undressing was for the sake of the other person.

He knows he has nothing to be ashamed of in his body; in fact, vanity is a flaw of his. It only makes it worse, because he’s critically aware of his uncle not just watching but appreciating him as he slips off his shirt, baring his chest. He turns away so he cannot see his uncle’s reaction, but that only makes him think of the muscles in his back and his broad shoulders, and the narrowness of his waist. He likes his body. He likes how it looks under tailored clothes and how well it performs. He likes people looking at him.

Normally he puts his dirty clothes in the armiger, because his uncle only has one laundry basket. Now, with his uncle watching, he can’t bear to flaunt his access to the Crown’s magic as well as his body. He leaves his shirt on the floor as he unbuckles his belt, which he hangs over the back of the desk chair, and instead of bending to remove his socks he lifts each foot to his hand. With his uncle at his back he feels like a prey animal, or a child. Bending would make him smaller and more vulnerable.

His trousers join his shirt and socks on the floor, and then his underwear go too. He doesn’t cover himself as he goes to the bed and slips in, but he wants to. Fleetingly, he thinks he should have put his clothes in the laundry basket in the washroom, but it’s much too late now; he can hardly get back up.

He’s lying on his back, the covers pulled up high to cover his chest, and he thinks he must look like a woman in a film, needing to stay chaste for the cameras. He’s cold and sweating at the same time, and when his uncle gets up and starts undressing too, he closes his eyes.

It’s only sex. If it’s what he needs to do to stay here, in Insomnia, he can do it a thousand times over.

When his uncle gets onto the bed and touches his shoulder, Ignis opens his eyes. His uncle’s skin is warm and it feels damp, but that might be his own sweat rather than his uncle’s. His uncle positions himself to kneel above Ignis as he kisses him, hands over his shoulders, their legs brushing up against each other. Ignis puts his hands on his uncle’s back, resting them there just above where the covers end. 

His uncle runs a hand down from Ignis’ jaw, over his neck and chest, down to between his legs. It skirts Ignis’ flaccid cock, past his balls, and fingers press lightly against Ignis’ hole.

‘Carcer,’ Ignis says, breathless, and he hears it clearly as a warning, or perhaps a plea to stop, even though he hadn’t meant to say it that way at all. Humiliation crawls across him, that he can’t even control his own body, that he sounds so weak and helpless.

‘Just the tip,’ his uncle says in return, and he bends and kisses Ignis’ collar and the tops of his pecs. ‘You’re too perfect for me to stop now. Just the tip and I’ll be satisfied. Titan himself would praise your body. It’s been driving me wild for so long now, so I won’t be able to stop.’

For how long, Ignis wonders as his uncle’s fingertips press into him, dry, and his hips move away without him meaning them to. It doesn’t do anything; all he ends up with is a curved back and his uncle’s hand following him and pressing in all the same. How long has his body been driving his uncle wild? Since their marriage? Since puberty? Since he moved in with him the first time, five years old and crying every night for his parents?

His uncle sits up, though he keeps his fingers pressing into Ignis, just barely enough to open him up, not penetrating yet. The covers slide off his back, exposing them both. With his other hand he touches the back of Ignis’ thigh, and Ignis obligingly lifts it. He continues lifting it as his uncle presses up and up, pushing him until his knee is pressed to the side of his chest. Ignis loops an arm around the back of his knee to hold it there, and feels how he’s shivering. It’s cold; it feels like a cold hand is pressing down on his chest, and it breaks through his skin and ribs and muscle like breaking through gelatin. It sinks deep into him, then pins him to the mattress.

‘Are you a virgin?’ his uncle asks, his fingers rocking gently where they’re just tucked into Ignis’ hole, fingertips only, in and out, in and out. ‘So flexible.’

‘Yes,’ Ignis says, and feels himself clench down, pushing his uncle out of his body. He has never been fucked before; does a handjob count? Not that it matters; all that matters is saying what his uncle wants to hear. Given his uncle had made Ignis jerk him off he must be taking about penetration, and in which case Ignis can be truthful. He would have lied if he hadn’t been a virgin, but in telling the truth he feels vulnerable to being disbelieved.

His uncle breathes out a laugh. ‘Are you? If I fuck you, you’ll be tight, then?’

It’s a question, but Ignis doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know if he should.

‘Just the tip,’ his uncle says, and groans. ‘It won’t hurt, and you’ll get to stay virgin. Just let me jerk off into you.’

Ignis can’t do anything other than let him. He tilts his head back, holding still as his uncle shuffles into place between his legs and presses the tip of his cock against Ignis’ hole.

He pushes, thrusting, and Ignis thinks he’s going to penetrate him fully — until he doesn’t, stopping with not even the full head of his cock inside Ignis. Ignis is breathing slow and harsh, much slower than his uncle’s breathing, which is coming in short pants. The air in his nose is cold; he feels cold and hot in turns, heat running through him like a fever.

 _Please don’t come in me_ , Ignis wants to say, but can’t, because that’s the whole point of what his uncle is doing.

His uncle leans on him, propping himself up with one hand on Ignis’ bent leg, bending it down further until Ignis’ knee is pressed against the mattress. He uses his other hand to jerk off, rough and fast, and his body rocks with the motion, which rocks Ignis in turn.

He comes just as Ignis is starting to wonder, distant and dazed, if he should be participating more. Wetness floods Ignis’ hole, and his uncle muffles a shout through clenched teeth. Ignis is still frozen in place when his uncle moves away, petting and rubbing at the rim of Ignis’ hole with his fingers. His fingers, where they trail across other parts of Ignis’ skin, are wet. When Ignis places his legs back down, flat on the bed, he can feel a trickle seep down and out of his hole. It feels like his insides are leaking out of him. His uncle lies down next to him and pulls his head in so they can kiss, slow and wet and deep. He pulls Ignis over to lie on top of him, and Ignis braces himself on his elbows and knees so he’s not crushing him, and lets his uncle kiss him. He kisses back, wondering distantly whether being good at it will mean this will take longer, or shorter. He tries his best anyway, because at least then he’s less likely to be punished for it. And what is a few more minutes of kissing, anyway? He’s too tired to care.

Eventually his uncle pulls away and shoves at Ignis wordlessly, working his body until he’s lying on his uncle’s stomach and chest, hips and legs between his uncle’s legs, his head resting on his uncle’s shoulder. His uncle keeps him there with one hand on his lower back, stroking him, and the other on the back of his head.

‘Thank you, Ignis,’ his uncle murmurs. ‘That was wonderful.’

Ignis turns his head once, but can’t make it more comfortable. It’s better not to fight. It’s easier just to comply. He’s so very tired. He still feels like he’s draining away, bleeding out without dying.

The next night Ignis’ uncle draws him to the bedroom again, and watches as he undresses. This time he stands and stops Ignis before he can make it to the bed.

‘You are glorious,’ he says, and he runs his hands over Ignis’ shoulders and squeezes. ‘You’re a clever man, surely you can see your body is meant to be used. You can’t have worked that hard for a body like yours and not expect people to not want it.’

Ignis tries to catch his uncle’s hands, but fails. His uncle, still dressed, presses in closer and grips his hair in one fist, the other scraping fingernails down Ignis’ spine to cup his arse.

His hand in Ignis’ hair yanks Ignis’ head back, and his uncle kisses his neck, then bites him, hard. Ignis sucks in a breath, shocked by the pain, but doesn’t move. His uncle steps back and backhands him across the face. It is, objectively, a weak blow, but it rattles Ignis like shutters in a typhoon.

‘Whore,’ his uncle says, half a sneer, half approval. ‘With a body like that.’

What can he say to that? ‘I’m sorry,’ Ignis says, and lets his uncle lead him to the bed.

His uncle pushes him down to sit on the side of the bed, and leans down to kiss him there. ‘Sorry for being a whore?’ he says, then laughs. ‘I hope my family aren’t looking down at me too badly for having you under my roof.’

He undresses while Ignis gets into bed, and he takes both of their clothes to the washroom himself. When he comes back he gets into bed, immediately up by Ignis’ side and running his hand over Ignis’ abs.

‘Do you love me?’ his uncle asks.

Ignis makes the mistake of looking at him, falling into the trap of his gaze. What does he want? What answer will satisfy him the most? ‘You are my—’ _uncle_ , Ignis almost but doesn’t say— ‘husband.’

Ignis’ uncle smiles. ‘Good,’ he says, and he strokes Ignis’ hair. ‘You don’t need to love me, just respect me.’

He pushes Ignis’ leg up again, like he had the previous night, and settles down, stroking Ignis’ thighs and hips. ‘Just the tip again,’ he says. ‘That’s acceptable, isn’t it? I know you don’t want to fuck me; is this is a good compromise, Ignis? You don’t get fucked in your tight, handsome arse. I get to relieve myself of a little of the tension you put on me with your body.’

The thought of his uncle coming in him makes Ignis nauseated again. ‘Yes,’ he says, because at least his uncle isn’t fucking him. He has that to be thankful for.

‘Excellent,’ his uncle says, and leans down for a moment so they can kiss.

Ignis takes deep breaths as his uncle presses the head of his cock to his hole, pushing in just barely, and starts jerking off. He closes his eyes, takes deep breaths so he doesn’t throw up. He’s never had a weak stomach before. He doesn’t know why he has one now.

His uncle is rocking back and forth in the rhythm of his hand. Or he is thrusting into his hand, and therefore into Ignis. His cock pushes at Ignis’ hole, shoving its way in just barely then pulling out again, never breaching past the head. Is he pushing deeper? Ignis can’t tell; maybe it’s his imagination. His uncle said just the tip. He said—

‘Carcer,’ he says, pushed out on the end of his breath. He grasps for his uncle with the hand he’s not using to hold his leg up by his chest. He doesn’t know how to speak after that, even if he knew what he wanted to say.

‘What is it?’ his uncle asks, panting. ‘Calm down, Ignis. Stop squirming.’

His uncle thrusts harder, and Ignis can feel the stretch and sharp pain as the entirety of his cock head pushes inside of him. His back arches, and he paws at his uncle’s hand where it’s pinning down his leg. He’s shaking.

‘Take it out,’ he says, ‘please — Carcer, please—’

His uncle rocks his hips, and with the hand that he’d been jerking off with he touches Ignis’ abs, his pecs, groping him like squeezing fruit to check its ripeness. ‘I couldn’t stop myself,’ he says. ‘How could you expect anyone to control themselves around you, with a body like this?’ He laughs breathlessly and grinds in a fraction further, deeper, stretching Ignis around his girth. ‘Look at you. Perfect. You could snap me in two if you wanted, but you’re not. Instead you’re spreading your legs for me. Obedient. I always loved how obedient you are. You were such a brat when you arrived — the Crown and I trained you well. You’d be useless otherwise.’

He’s stopped moving, and Ignis listens to him, trembling, impaled helplessly on the end of his cock.

‘If I hadn’t got you your position with the prince,’ his uncle says, breathing hard, strained, ‘you’d be nothing. You owe everything you are to me. Why shouldn’t I get to enjoy the harvest I planted?’ 

He thrusts, but Ignis is too tight, too dry, and he fails to press in any deeper. Ignis yelps. It feels like deep inside himself, he’s ripping.

‘Stop,’ he says, ‘please, you’re too big—’

‘I’m not going to stop,’ his uncle says, but he seems frustrated as well; he withdraws to the beginning of his cock head, then pushes back in. He only makes it a small fraction of the way before he is forced to stop. He pinches Ignis’ nipple and twists it, and Ignis gasps out a cry at the pain. 

‘I’m not going to stop,’ his uncle says again, harder, and withdraws and thrusts, withdraws and thrusts. The feeling of ripping grows, a growing tear like a ladder in fabric.

Moving in time with his uncle helps a little, as does hooking his free leg over his uncle’s back. It still hurts, but not as badly as when he’d been lying more flat. He does not think he will throw up, though moving his head threatens it.

His uncle pauses, and then leans down into Ignis, trying to push into him. He grunts, and yanks at Ignis’ hair, twists his nipples, pinches and scratches him, hands restless over Ignis’ body. ‘Relax,’ he says, snapping it like an order. ‘You’re too tight.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ignis says, because there’s nothing else he can do but apologise. He thinks if he suggests lube then his uncle will be more likely to forego it than if he doesn’t. ‘I’m sorry, I’m trying—’

‘Try harder.’ 

He isn’t trying; he doesn’t know how to try. How to relax himself, how to allow his uncle’s cock into his body. He can already feel the physical weight of it inside himself, even just a small part of his uncle’s length and girth, and he can’t think of anything other than wanting it out. He needs it out; he needs it to be over. His body has gone weak and pliant, running hot and cold, hot and cold. He can’t stop shaking as his uncle thrusts, rough and shallow, into him.

His eyes are pressed closed, but he can’t not feel everywhere his uncle is touching him. He can’t do anything but let his uncle fuck him.

There’s a pause, a lull in the staccato rhythm, before his uncle pulls back and out of him in a shock of pain like a knife wound. Ignis holds still except for his leg, which slips off his uncle’s back and falls to the bed. His eyes are closed, so he can’t see, but the movement of the mattress tells him his uncle is leaning to one side, and the sounds tell him he’s taking something from the bedside table. The click of a bottle cap, and then the mattress moves again. The sudden cold wetness in his hole is a shock even though it shouldn’t be; his uncle shoves two fingers inside him as deep as they’ll go, all the way to the knuckle. It stretches Ignis open, pushes around in his internal organs, and the lube squeezes out of him and drips down his skin.

‘What do you say, Ignis?’ he uncle says as he pulls away his hand and replaces it with his cock. He slides in, hard and fast, and bottoms out in one thrust. Ignis bites back a cry of pain, but only barely. For several long seconds he can’t breathe.

‘Ignis?’ His uncle says, and slaps him. His hand is wet.

‘Thank you,’ Ignis gasps. He lets go of his leg he was holding up so he can rests it on his uncle’s back, and rock with his uncle’s movement with each thrust. In the apex of each thrust he he can feel his uncle deep inside him, pushing and tugging at his guts.

‘You’re still tight,’ his uncle says through clenched teeth, rocking his hips. ‘Guess you were a virgin after all.’

He comes soon after that, grunting as he pumps hard and fast into Ignis, balls slapping up against Ignis’ skin. Ignis takes deep breaths through his open mouth, because he cannot suck in enough air through his nose, and unhooks his leg from around his uncle. He doesn’t lie it on the bed, because his uncle is still inside him, going soft, but holds it gingerly at the back of his thigh. When Ignis’ uncle pulls out there’s a wet sound; Ignis only just manages to swallow down the vomit that rushes up his throat and pools in the back of his mouth, burning. He can feel liquid trickle down through him, out of him. He can’t stop thinking of his uncle’s come inside of him, coating his insides, white and sticky, and he puts his leg down, pressing it tight against the other.

‘Oh, stop being so sulky,’ his uncle says as he lies next to Ignis, close enough that they’re only just not touching. He’s still winded, and his voice is hoarser than usual. When he strokes Ignis, petting him across the chest and waist, his hand is clumsy. ‘Of course I didn’t stop. Your body is irresistible, and you’re so obedient, lying naked in my bed...’ His fingers trail down to Ignis’ hip, and he rests his hand there.

‘Come here,’ he demands, and he puts a hand behind Ignis’ head to bring him over and on top of him, so that they can kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

In the morning Ignis gets up and showers. His uncle is still deep asleep, so Ignis goes into his own room, still devoid of a bed, and opens the drawers to his desk. He takes out the playing cards and the engraved pen set Gladio gave him, and puts them in a box. The Ebony brand coffee mug Prompto bought for him back when they’d only just met goes in, as does the album of photobooth prints and Prompto’s photos that Ignis had had to persuade Prompto for weeks to put together and give to him. Most of the rest of the box is filled with things from Noct: capsule prizes from the arcade, badges with skull motifs, a rock that he tentatively identified as some kind of mineral ore, a coeurl fang, a glasses cleaning cloth printed with little pots and pans, a spare fishing lure, and other small things he’d picked up over the years. Ignis puts it all in the armiger, as well as a couple of his favourite jackets, and gives his room another look over. There are certainly things he’ll miss if he loses them, his wardrobe not least of all, but everything else that’s important is either in the armiger or his office.

He’s going to be late. Ignis closes his desk drawers and leaves for Noct’s apartment, to cook him breakfast and get him ready for the day ahead. He stops on the way to buy fresh ingredients, and as he stands in line, he is struck with a sudden wash of nausea, panic crawling over his flesh like centipedes.

It fades by the time he gets to the front of the queue and pays. Laden with groceries Ignis gets into his car, pausing for a moment to make sure he’s fine to drive, and pulls out into the early morning traffic.

He feels — fine, he supposes. He lets Noct sleep as he prepares breakfast, and it’s — fine. It’s like being just on the right side of functioning drunk; he can, or at least he thinks he can, do everything correctly and up to standards, from driving to showering to cooking. There’s still a film over his eyes, a bell jar turned over his head, and it feels like his body is being operated through a middleman. He’s worried that when Noct wakes up he won’t be able to hold a proper conversation.

No. He’s perfectly fine. He surveys breakfast again: buttery toast, rice and fish and soup, banana, tofu, omelette, all the appropriate plates of sides. It’s all there, present and correct, appropriate for the amount of training Noct will be doing today. There’s coffee and a jug of water. No, it’s definitely all there.

He goes to get Noct up, having woken him a while ago when he started cooking. Noct grumbles at him but gets up. It’s cloudy outside, though looking to clear up and be sunny later.

‘Hey,’ Noct says, as they eat. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ Ignis says, which isn’t in the least bit convincing, if Noct’s expression is anything to go by. ‘I just had a minor argument with my uncle. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Tch,’ Noct says. ‘What about?’

‘Furniture, if you’d believe it,’ Ignis says, and he smiles. He isn’t sure if it’s coming across as reassuring, so he masks it by taking another mouthful of food.

‘That’s bullshit,’ Noct says and ignores how Ignis raises his eyebrows at his language. ‘What’s he even saying? It might be his house technically but you live there too.’

Ignis shakes his head. ‘Let’s not go over it,’ he says. ‘It’s a ridiculous argument.’

Noct grumbles but doesn’t push. He shovels some more food into his mouth and glances at his phone when he gets a message. He taps out a response. ‘Prompto says hi, by the way,’ he says, and the tension is notably gone from him as he says it.

‘Tell him good morning from me,’ Ignis says.

Noct types it out. ‘He says hi again,’ he adds after a few seconds. ‘Says he booked the flower tickets, thanks for the advice, and I’m not a messenger service, if you two want to chat you talk to him yourself.’

‘Say I’m glad and I hope it goes well,’ Ignis says, and he reaches over and ruffles Noct’s hair as he grumbles darkly, putting down his cutlery to type.

‘Prompto says you’ll see him before then anyway to wish him well in person. What are you even talking about?’

‘He’s taking his mother to the annual Florists’ Show,’ Ignis says, ‘when she comes down to visit.’

‘Oh, huh.’ Noct squints as he thinks, still weighed down by sleep. ‘That’s ages away. Why wouldn’t you see him before then?’

‘True enough; I suppose I’ll get to tell him in person, then,’ Ignis says. ‘Are you done eating?’

‘Yeah, I’m done.’

Ignis gets up and clears the table. Noct continues sitting as he does so, playing on his phone. Texting Prompto? How convinced was he by the conversation? Ignis can’t tell. He washes the dishes, which is easy, and when he comes back out of the kitchen Noct looks up at him.

‘Hey, Specs,’ he says. ‘Want to stay the night tonight?’

‘That would be nice,’ Ignis says, without thinking at all. ‘For any particular reason, or just because?’

He thinks, immediately afterwards, that that’s the wrong answer. He struggles with that, which feels like struggling with a number puzzle when he’s too tired to concentrate. His uncle is going to be extremely unhappy if he’s not back. He does not want to go back to his uncle’s house. His priority is to keep Noct happy and functioning. The threat to send him to Niflheim is not an empty one.

‘No reason,’ Noct says, but he’s brightened, and Ignis thinks he made the right choice.

He sends a text to his uncle explaining his plans, and then he goes to work. Time passes oddly slowly, but he makes it through the day, bit by bit. The nausea comes and goes, and sometimes he has to stop just to breathe, plant his hands on his desk to steady himself, and pull his thoughts together when they fray apart. He thinks he probably ought to be concerned by this, but getting through work is easy, when it comes down to it. The feeling of distance doesn’t fade, but it doesn’t stop him from functioning. He can hear himself speak, and it all sounds reasonable.

He thinks there’s the crest of the wave somewhere over the horizon, and it’ll reach him eventually and break over him, but until it does there’s not much he can do about it.

The day passes and the water, however, slowly starts to recede. He can hear more clearly; thinking becomes active rather than unconscious. The memories of last night are — well, it’s fine. He won’t touch them. But he’s relieved he seems to have woken up almost entirely by the time he goes to pick Noct up to take him back home.

‘What about Gladio and Prompto?’ he asks as they’re driving back.

‘Gladio is doing stuff with Iris,’ Noct says. ‘Dunno about Prompto.’

He doesn’t seem inclined to talk further about it, or pursue Prompto to invite him alone, so Ignis drops it. He feels, selfishly, rather pleased that Noct wants him and only him. He’s been Noct’s friend for the longest, but sometimes he thinks that’s not so much a good thing as an indication that he’s due to be shelved, past his best before end date. Maybe, he thinks sometimes, Noct has outgrown him and moved on, developed into his own person and discarded all his old, childish things that he’d been given and had no choice in choosing.

When Noct disproves his theories, like now, it’s always a pleasure. Ignis wallows in it as they watch some film or other, a vaguely arty thing with daemons as a metaphor for humanity’s wastefulness, and Noct insists they order in dinner. It feels comfortable, like they’re children again and there’s nothing serious to worry about. Noct sits pressed up against his side, and the absolute flush of warmth and love, the boundless gratitude that Noct wants to be with him, distracts Ignis entirely from the television.

He even lets Noct win one match in the game they move to next, sitting apart so they have room to play without elbowing each other and risk accusations of cheating. It’s loud and bright and so familiar that Ignis barely has time to remember that his life is now completely different to how it used to be only a few months ago. The knowledge of his new life creeps around the corners of his vision in between matches, then retreats when he’s concentrating on combos and Noct’s character’s position and the timing of his punches. He used to be able to frame-count, but he hasn’t played in long enough that he’s lost the ability for it. It makes winning more challenging, and the game more capable of sliding the reality of his life away, out of sight.

It’s not until Noct yawns and tosses down his controller that Ignis realises his mistake. He feels flattened by the silence following the game being switched off. The loss of sound and colour settle the bell jar back over his head, and Noct is too tired and disgruntled from losing to remove it.

It was a mistake coming here. He should have gone back to his uncle’s house. His uncle will retaliate, and whether that’s sending him to Niflheim or refusing to let him to go to bed when he just wants to sleep, scolding him and pinching his arms, saying the same things over and over, forcing him to answer then accusing him of being ungrateful and useless and a nasty, disobedient child whom no one loves, no wonder no one loves him, even his own parents, no wonder they got rid of him—

He should have gone back. It’s too late now. It’s too late, and his uncle will be angry when he gets back—

‘Specs?’ Noct’s looking at him with his pretty blue eyes. ‘You okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ Ignis says, embarrassingly shaky, except he doesn’t seem to have the capacity to be embarrassed any more. As it is he only feels a dull recognition of the absence.

‘Like shit you are,’ Noct says, looking at the blank TV screen. ‘Your uncle—’ 

It’s not a question, Ignis understands. Noct looks frustrated, cut off by himself, something stopping him from saying what he wants to say.

‘What about him?’ Ignis asks, because he thinks Noct knows more than he ought, but less than what he could. He would have said something when Ignis had got married if he’d really known. It’s something Ignis thinks he’ll regret later, asking this of Noct, but right now he just wants to know.

‘Nothing,’ Noct says, which isn’t what Ignis wants to hear, because it’s clearly not what Noct thinks. ‘No, it’s just — you don’t seem okay.’

‘I’m fine,’ Ignis says, even though it’s the second time in the short conversation he’s said so and it’s no more convincing than the first time round.

Noct seems lost. It’s not normal that he is the one trying to comfort and guide Ignis, and Ignis feels sorry that he put him in such a position. Noct, however, is a generous and soft-hearted person, and there’s not much Ignis can do to make him feel better when he so clearly doesn’t believe Ignis’ word.

‘Let’s just go to bed,’ Noct says. It’s reasonably late; Ignis could work, but there’s nothing he absolutely needs to have done by morning. And he is tired.

Somehow, they end up in Noct’s bed. Ignis knows that at some point he should have diverted and gone to the spare bedroom instead, but he didn’t, and it’s too late to get out now. He’s already half asleep. Noct hadn’t seemed to have minded. If he had Ignis knows he would seen it and left, but…

Noct’s bed is different from his uncle’s. It’s softer, the sheets a different fabric, the room darker, and it smells like Noct rather than his uncle. Still, anxiety pricks at Ignis through the fog in his head, wordless and aimless, until he reaches out and touches Noct on the shoulder just to get rid of it.

Noct is half asleep, too, though that’s not surprising in the least. The air conditioning makes the room pleasantly cold, so Ignis shifts closer, and Noct rolls so that Ignis can wrap him up in his arms, press the length of his body to Noct’s body.

Ignis thinks it’s the first time he’s been the big spoon, as it were. It’s nice; he can see why other people like it. He’s asleep before he can dwell on the matter any further.

The next morning Ignis cooks Noct breakfast and they go to work together. Ignis checks his phone repeatedly, but his uncle hasn’t sent him any kind of message. Whether or not this is a good sign, he can’t tell.

Maybe he should go home for lunch. His uncle works at home most mornings, leaving only after having had lunch. Or perhaps he could try and find his uncle in his workplace, and—

And then what? Has it really got to the point where he’s desperate just to crawl to his uncle’s feet, roll over and beg like a dog to not be kicked?

He can’t concentrate on his work. He makes a mistake, sending an email — thankfully not a sensitive one— to the wrong person, and then another when he schedules in a progress review for one of his junior staff on a national holiday, and only realises when said staff member tentatively emails back to query it. It’s a good thing, he thinks, that he’s taking so long to do his work, because it means he has an entirely legitimate reason not to be at his uncle’s house. Then he thinks it’s bad, because he cannot afford to be a poor employee now, when he needs to be invaluable to the Crown and have the Crown defend him and his position. Because his uncle will be angrier the longer he avoids him.

He works, and carries on working as everyone else goes home around him, dragged on like a dog tied to the back of a car. He just needs to get this done, and then he can go. Return to his uncle. Beg his forgiveness? Show him that he won’t fight back so there’s no need to send him away.

His typing is terrible, needing corrections every few words when it should be flawless. His hands are clumsy, and no amount of coffee can chase away the fog and clutter in his head. His heart is pounding, sweat prickling on his skin. He’s probably had too much caffeine.

It’s near midnight when he gets into the train, almost entirely empty, and sits down. He wants, with a desperation like needing to breathe, to go back to Noct’s instead. The train takes him to the stop by his uncle’s house, and Ignis’ feet walk him the rest of the way.

Maybe his uncle will be asleep or too tired to do anything to him.

His uncle is in bed, the lights off, but he wakes up when Ignis slips in beside him. He paws at Ignis and makes a noise of irritation when he finds pyjamas.

‘Take those off,’ he says, thick with sleep, sharp with irritation. His hand grips Ignis’ upper arm for a moment, digging in with his fingers, before letting go.

Ignis gets out of bed and undresses, then climbs back in.

‘Come here,’ his uncle says, more awake now, and he guides Ignis to clamber on top of him, straddle his waist, bend down and kiss him. His uncle’s cock is hard and it rubs against Ignis; his uncle presses his hand against it, trapping it in the cleft of Ignis’ arse, and strokes it lazily. His hips rock, and Ignis matches the rhythm of it, rising and falling gently, his face tucked into the crook of his uncle’s neck.

Some time later, when his uncle’s rocking gets a little too insistent, and his breathing becomes panting, he pushes Ignis off and rolls over to grab the lube. It had been resting on the bedside table, rather than in the drawer. Ignis watches, thinking he hadn’t even noticed it. He wants to be at Noct’s; he wants to be anywhere other than here. He needs it like breathing.

His uncle pushes and shoves at his hips, fingers digging into his skin, but Ignis can’t tell what he wants him to do until his uncle says, roughly: ‘Stop being so fucking useless and ride me.’

Ignis gets up onto his knees, straddling his uncle’s body. He’s not entirely sure how to proceed, his only guesses coming from memories of pornography, but he strokes lube onto his uncle’s cock and positions it against his hole with one hand. Sinking down onto it is sharply painful, his whole body tensing up at the intrusion, but his uncle’s hands on his upper thighs help him to not rise back up and off it. The feeling of it inside him leaves him gasping, tears pricking his eyes.

Eventually he works out that rocking his hips is easier than physically moving up and down. He can concentrate on not letting his uncle’s cock slip out of him, which is easy enough if he doesn’t move too far or too fast. It’s harder when his uncle starts thrusting up into him, because it breaks his rhythm, bounces him up and down, makes it so much more likely that he will be rising when his uncle pulls down, his cock slipping from Ignis, wet and hot as it scrapes across the skin of his inner thighs.

His uncle snaps at him but the words are hard to concentrate on. They bounce off him like skipping stones. When his uncle comes Ignis doesn’t even realise at first; it takes his uncle holding him down with a punishing grip on his waist for him to fall still. He doesn’t think he can feel his uncle’s come enter deep into his body, but he can imagine it anyway.

Then, after his uncle’s short jolts and twitches of pleasure have died down, Ignis settles on his front on the bed, legs spread to where his uncle pushes them. His uncle lies on his side next to him, and he idly presses his fingers into Ignis’ loose, sore hole, playing with the wetness of his own come. He smears it on Ignis’ skin, pushes it deeper inside Ignis’ hole. Ignis closes his eyes and focuses on breathing around the feeling of being pushed underwater.


	10. Chapter 10

It happens two days later, on the train to Noct’s apartment. Ignis, standing squashed in the crowd of commuters, realises he is furious. It’s like waking up — like bursting from deep water to the surface and taking gasping breaths, hearing what was muffled before, seeing things through air that were indecipherable from underwater.

The fury makes him frightened, a little, because he can tell it’s making him incautious. He wants to _do_ something, though there’s exactly nothing he can do on the train, except send incensed text messages. He wants to act. He wants to fight—

He’s not entirely sure how long it will last — whether it’s a fleeting thing and he’ll be back underwater by the next sight or word of his uncle, or if it’ll sustain him, a smouldering fire that won’t go out. For now, though, the strength of emotion that rails through him is overwhelming. He cannot comprehend how useless he’s been. He is viscerally disgusted by his own inaction, his passiveness so great it bordered on giving consent. How could he have let his uncle play with him like a cheap sex toy, mocking him, fucking around with him however he pleased?

He gets off two stops early where he knows there’s a street with shops there, one of which sells electronics. He buys the smallest security camera they have that he can afford; without his card, which his uncle most likely still checks via statement, he only has the cash to purchase an off-brand thing, but it will do. He only needs it to work once.

More than once he catches himself clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. The anger thuds through him, like a daemon is trapped inside his skin, and he clenches his fists, trying to distract himself from it. He thinks it has to burn itself out; if it doesn’t he’ll turn to charcoal and then ash, and fall apart.

The fury has settled, somewhat, by the time he gets to Noct’s. Seeing Noct asleep in bed is at once soothing and enraging: Noct knew. He may not have known everything, but he knew something, and he did nothing. He let Ignis marry. He let Ignis leave, and he watched him suffer, and he was too cowardly to do anything about it at all.

But that’s unfair. Noct had been only a child when he’d last been around Ignis’ uncle. Children are intuitive but hardly all-knowing. There’s every chance he’d taken a bad impression of Ignis’ uncle but remembers no evidence for it.

The sight of Noct at peace is always a good one. The rage wars with that, and in the end loses. Noct’s skin is pale in the darkness. Ignis’ heart aches with how much he loves him. It doesn’t matter what Noct does or doesn’t do; Ignis’ love for him is unconditional.

Ignis goes to make breakfast. The camera is safe in the armiger, but he can feel it acutely, as if it’s in plain sight. What if he’s caught? What if it goes wrong and his uncle has him sent away?

Noct will defend him. Noct won’t let him go. He has to trust that Noct will be there to catch and shield him if he fails.

And if he doesn’t, it will be Ignis’ own fault for getting caught, so it’s only be fair he take the punishment for it.

Noct recognises that he’s angry, but Ignis’ anger is an Insomnian Wall for outsiders to batter against, and Noct gets nowhere with his careful, prying comments. He clearly feels bad about it, frustrated by his inability to help as well as his ignorance as to the cause of Ignis’ anger, and Ignis regrets that; making Noct feel bad is never his intent. Still, he’s hardly going to include Noct in on his reasons. And this is for the better, for both of them.

Gladio and Prompto would recognise Ignis’ anger if they were exposed to it, which they aren’t. Ignis spends the rest of the day in his office, in meeting rooms, other people’s offices, and a few other physical locations in the grinding political machinery that makes up the majority of the Citadel. No one knows him well enough to see through the polite mask he slips on. They might see irritation or a bad temper at the most, but not the scraping nails of Ignis’ rage as it throws fits inside him.

How could he have let it get this far? Why hasn’t he _done_ anything before now? How has he been so weak, pathetic, useless?

He’s almost frightened that it’ll burn itself out before he can get home and act, and that he’ll simply go back to how he was, roll over, and accept his fate. The thought terrifies him.

He feels insane. His own actions in the past few weeks are utterly alien to him. He doesn’t understand them. But how can he tell if he’s in his right mind now, and that when he snaps out of his rage he’ll look back and think the same of his actions now? How can he tell what’s correct, what’s rational, when he feels adrift with no frame of reference to go by? He’s treading water in an ocean.

His anger drives him. It’s still there as he sits in his office before leaving and sets up the camera, ready for use. It digs his claws into as he gets the train back, and arrives at his uncle’s house, and is told to kneel as his uncle sits on the side of the bed and Ignis sucks him off. Ignis’ uncle comes on his face, shoving him back with a hand on his forehead at the last second, and his come spurts across Ignis’ cheeks and nose, over his open lips and into his mouth.

Ignis gets up to wash, but his uncle grasps him by his upper arm and pulls him into bed.

The come dries on his face as he lies there, not sleeping. It makes his skin itch, feel tight and dirty and the longer it’s on the more he wants to scrape away his skin, his flesh down to the bones. He’s tired, and he pinches himself to stay awake.

At some point, when he’s as sure as he can be that his uncle is deep asleep, he gets up. He doesn’t know what time it is; all of the clocks in his uncle’s house are analogue, and he can’t make out the hands in the dark.

He doesn’t have a good excuse if his uncle catches him. He’ll just have to remain uncaught.

The light from his phone is enough to light up his uncle’s computer, but it casts long, dark shadows. Ignis places the camera right behind the monitor, facing the keyboard. He’s sure it’s impossible to see from any normal angle when using the computer, hidden as it is, secured in place, but in the stark light it’s easy to second-guess himself. He can’t spend too long on it, though. Every second he’s here is a second more in which he can be caught.

His heart is beating wildly when he gets back into bed. His hands are damp with sweat as he pulls the covers up over himself, listening to the sound of his uncle breathe. The sweat on his face prickles as it meets the dried come.

Defiant, he wipes his face on the pillow and flips it over. The adrenaline coursing through him stops him from sleeping, even though exhaustion clings to him and drags him down, sitting behind his eyes and making them itch.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he can’t stop now. Only the force of his momentum is what’s keeping him going.

Ignis retrieves the camera the next night, tucking it away into the armiger as soon as he grabs it, and he goes straight back to bed. In his office the next morning he loads the footage onto his laptop, sets it to fast-forward, and watches for movement.

The camera is cheap; Ignis is half sure that it wouldn’t work, that the batteries will have run out or the image quality will be too poor, or that his uncle simply didn’t use the computer that day. That the image he sees will be his uncle noticing the camera.

Instead, though it takes him a long while to get to it, he gets a clear video of his uncle typing — first his password to log in, then other things, and Ignis sits and copies down each character as his uncle types it. It takes hours; he is slacking from work in an extreme way, but he needs to do this. He can catch up on work later. Say he was ill, perhaps.

Most of what his uncle types is of no interest. Ignis doesn’t care about what he says to his colleagues or family, and it’s easy to skip the contents of extended typing. What he is interested in — passwords — is harder to find and harder to note down, given the randomness of the characters, but by lunch time Ignis has a short list he’s confident is accurate.

He uses the passwords to log into his uncle’s work email.

What he’s doing is highly illegal, but he confident he probably won’t be prosecuted if he’s found out. The Crown will brush it under the rug as family matters. His family will have him sent away rather than bring shame on all of them by having a scandal enter through the legal system.

Being sent away will be punishment enough. He will simply have to remain uncaught.

The first thing he does, once he knows he has the right password, is sign up to a temporary email address for himself. Then he searches his uncle’s emails for any to or from addresses associated with the Niflheim consulate. It doesn’t take long; there’s an email directly inquiring after the position, sent to the director-general of Niflheim Affairs.

His uncle is no more subtle in his work than he is in his relationships, Ignis finds himself thinking. He sets up a rule to forward emails from the director-general to his temporary email address, and another rule to mark emails as read and to delete them once forwarded, both in the inbox and sent messages folder. Then he replies to the director-general, in his best imitation of his uncle’s style, and says that he’s interested in the consul job, and furthermore, since he’s never held a diplomatic position before, he desires to be sent to Zegnautus to shadow the current consul before the job starts.

Ignis copies in a few more people, sets up rules for them as he had for the director-general, and sends the email. He then logs off.

It’s not water-tight. If his uncle has his emails set up to notify him, there’s every chance he might see a notification of the email as it arrives and before it’s marked as read and deleted. The address his emails are forwarded to is not directly associated with Ignis, but Ignis is clearly the first and only suspect, and there’s not much Ignis can do to kill the link entirely if they choose to take his phone and pick it apart. His only chance of success is if his uncle only realises what’s happening once the job is already his and he cannot back out without losing face.

As he gets back to his own work, Ignis realises he’s shaking. He puts his hands in his lap and clenches them together, as hard as he can, but it doesn’t do much to help. He can’t tell if it’s from anger or something else. He thinks it’s still anger.

Everything is happening too fast, but it needs to be fast. Once he’s started he can’t stop.

By all accounts the consul job is a good, respectable one, not least for the incredible amount of dedication to work one must have to be willing to live in Zegnautus for it. Iudex does not need Carcer in Insomnia. If she finds out he’s got the position, however that happens, she may well make him go, not just to save face but to bolster the family’s position as well.

That’s if it works. Ignis returns to typing, his hands trembling over the keys, and he hopes he doesn’t make any mistakes because he can’t concentrate in the least. He keeps checking his temporary email, waiting for responses, unable to leave it alone for longer than a few minutes at a time.

Is he still angry? He can’t tell any more. His whole body feels separated from himself. He’s watching what he’s doing from somewhere within his head, but he’s not truly inhabiting it.

His phone chimes, making his heart leap in his throat, but it’s an email about a lunch and PR event happening next week. It leaves him feeling weak with anxiety, unable to move on and get back to work.

He is still angry, he decides. He is furious that this is what his uncle made him into. He despises it.


	11. Chapter 11

When his uncle fucks him that night, Ignis face down in the pillows, trying not to let his knees slip from under him as his uncle thrusts roughly into him, the anger finally dies. It’d already collapsed in on itself, gone hard and cold, but now it sinks into disgust and revulsion like a lead ball into the muddy, slimy floor of a pond.

He can feel the impact of the thrusts, the apex of each one hitting him and moulding his insides to the shape of his uncle’s cock. It reverberates through him, shoves him forwards onto his face, makes him brace with his hands. He tries to breathe through it, but each thrust into his guts makes him pant, the impact forcing air from his lungs in weak little gasps.

How much longer? His uncle won’t last much longer. He can’t. Ignis can’t. It hurts, the shove and pull of his uncle’s cock, stretching him wide open, and the revulsion claws through his guts and chest like toads squatting inside his body cavity. He thinks he might throw up, or pass out. 

His uncle pulls out, his hands on Ignis’ hips, and Ignis feels hot wetness splatter on his hole, the skin around it, and his balls and arse. He turns his head and gags, sucking in air, trying to calm his stomach as it clenches and roils. He feels his uncle’s hand leave his hip, but he flinches anyway when he feels fingers trace around his hole, scraping up the come to push it inside of him. His uncle is breathing hard, and his hand is unsteady. Ignis feels his hole clench up around his uncle’s fingers as he shoves them into him, painfully tight.

‘Carcer,’ Ignis says, and hates how it’s pleading. He just wants to lie down, to go and shower, to be anywhere other than in a bed with his uncle.

His uncle ignores him, thrusting his fingers in and out. When he does withdraw them it’s to wipe them across Ignis’ arse. He strokes Ignis’ balls, smearing the drying come across them. 

Ignis’ breath catches when his uncle pushes his fingers back inside him. His back arches down, hips moving forwards to try and escape, but his uncle just moves forwards with him. His hand on Ignis’ hip grips him, trying to tug him back, though he doesn’t have the strength.

It’s hard to judge how many fingers are inside Ignis, but it hurts, stretching him worse than his uncle’s cock did, large as it is. The shove and push is relentless, and Ignis can’t bite back the sounds of pain that bubble out from his throat. He’s gasping; the pillow under his face is damp and cold with saliva.

His uncle pulls out his fingers all at once, roughly, and a split-second later slaps Ignis across the arse. It’s enough to send Ignis collapsing down onto the mattress, pain and disgust like physical bodies inhabiting him. Through the roar in his head he hears his uncle say: ‘Not so tight as you were. You’ll be gaping open soon, at this rate.’

Ignis doesn’t have it within him to reply. He can still feel come and lubrication on his skin. The pain lingers; had he tore, anywhere? Is he bleeding? His uncle lies down next to him and Ignis jerks his limbs away, rolling over so that he’s on the edge of the bed, even though moving hurts enough to catch his breath.

Will his uncle stop him if he gets up to shower? He pushes himself up, slowly and gingerly, feeling pathetic that such a little amount of pain can cripple him. He knows he’s been through far worse and carried on fighting before. Why can’t he now? Why does everything about his uncle break him?

He knows he’s working to send his uncle away, punish him like he’s been threatening to punish Ignis, but it doesn’t feel real. The fruition of it is like a daydream, insubstantial and useless in the face of reality.

He’s sliding his legs out of the bed when his uncle reaches over and grasps at him, catching his arm.

‘No,’ his uncle says, like he’s talking to a dog.

The grip on Ignis’ arm is not strong. Ignis knows he can break out of it. His uncle is smaller, weaker, not trained like Ignis has been. He can’t break away. He can’t risk his uncle getting angry, sending more emails, and realising what Ignis is doing behind his back in the confusion that follows.

Ignis gets back into bed. He can’t feel it but he knows there’s come smeared onto the sheets. It makes Ignis’ gorge rise to feel the wetness between his thighs, trickling back out of his aching hole, but he swallows it back down and closes his eyes. Eventually he falls asleep.

The first thing he does in the morning, once safely in the bathroom, is check his temporary email. There’s nothing yet, which is fair enough. He hadn’t expected anyone to reply overnight. He still refreshes the page twice more in the bathroom, once after showering, and once more while brushing his teeth.

Ignis checks again in the elevator in Noct’s apartment building. Nothing, again. It’s still too early, he tells himself. Very few people are at work and even if they are, this is going to be a matter that needs talking over and can’t be decided over a coffee.

Ignis’ secretary notices he’s distracted. He tells her he’s feeling a little ill but he’ll power through it, which she approves of. He’s still sore; it hurts to sit down, and he ends up shifting constantly, trying to ignore not just the discomfort but the urge to check his emails, and check again, and keep checking.

Then, finally, after lunch, he — his uncle — has a reply. Ignis opens and reads it, trepidation making his fingers fumble even to hold his phone. What if, even if his uncle never finds out, he still isn’t considered suitable for the position and all of this is for nothing?

 _I’m pleased you’re so interested,_ the director-general says, and _if not this position then a similar placement can definitely be found._ He also suggests that shadowing should be possible. He’s copied in the current consul and asked their opinion, though they haven’t replied yet. Ignis reads then re-reads the email. There doesn’t seem to be any catch, no implied suspicion. Perhaps the director-general thinks Ignis’ uncle needs to get out of Insomnia for some reason or other, and is doing him a favour. Or maybe they really are that desperate for anyone half-way qualified to hold a position in Niflheim.

Ignis’ personal phone is silent. His work phone pings repeatedly, but with work related matters only. Will his uncle realise? Has he already, and he’s simply waiting for Ignis to come back to his house before accusing him? It’s not just Ignis who can work behind other people’s backs.

If he realises, it would have been when the email first came in and caused a notification. He hasn’t changed his password, so perhaps he hasn’t. Ignis logs back in and replies to the director-general to tell him he’s keen to proceed as soon as possible.

He’s meddled enough that he might well not need to do any more through the emails. It may be that all he needs to do now is wait, and have everyone he’s messaged do the work for him in spreading this information concerning the new consul-general. But he doesn’t want to leave it up to fate, or other people. Not now when he’s got this far, possibly his only chance.

He calls Noct. ‘Do you remember the foreign policy meeting you’d been booked to go to but didn’t?’ he says.

‘What?’ Noct says. ‘Uh. Maybe?’

‘Well, it happened,’ Ignis says. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. ‘Do you know who Utibilis is?’

The silence on Noct’s end says that he doesn’t. ‘About that,’ he says.

‘Never mind. Noct, I need you to do a favour for me.’

There’s something in his voice — seriousness? Exhaustion? Though he’s regularly serious and often exhausted — that makes Noct pay attention. Or perhaps it’s because Ignis never asks for favours. ‘What do you need?’ Noct says.

‘I need you to tell someone, preferably someone who is at least somewhat related to Niflheim, that my uncle is becoming the new consul-general in Zegnautus. Don’t pass it off as major news; it isn’t. But I need to spread the information outside of official channels. If anyone asks, you learnt it from Utibilis, the secretary of the director-general of Niflheim Affairs, who was at the meeting last week.’

‘Right,’ Noct says, hastily, clearly taken off guard and scrambling to remember it all. ‘Utibilis, consul-general, your uncle, Zegnautus. Tell someone. Got it. So, uh, is he really going to Zegnautus?’

‘If I have any say in it,’ Ignis says, ‘yes.’

Noct breathes out a laugh. ‘Shit,’ he says, ‘that’s terrifying.’

Ignis finds himself smiling. It feels foreign on his lips, but also nice. ‘I’ll also need you to kept my name out of it, of course.’

‘I figured,’ Noct says. ‘No, it’s perfect. I got this bullshit luncheon and one of the themes is technology across borders. Does your uncle have any tech connections?’

‘None that I know of,’ Ignis says.

‘Whatever, that’s still fine. I can do this for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Ignis says, and means it. ‘That’s a huge weight off my shoulders.’

‘Literally no problem. It might even make this whole thing less boring.’

‘Please don’t overplay it,’ Ignis says, even though he trusts Noct. For all that he dislikes it, Noct is far from a bad politician, at least when he makes an effort.

‘I won’t,’ Noct says. ‘It’s important. I get it.’

‘Thank you,’ Ignis says. ‘I have to go now, work to do, but — this means a lot. Thank you, Noct.’

‘Don’t sweat it,’ Noct says, and he’s clearly embarrassed. ‘And yeah, I’ll see you later?’

‘Weapons, at six.’

‘Yep, cool. I’ll tell you how it goes then.’

‘Thank you,’ Ignis says, and then, ‘I’ll see you later.’

After he hangs up he checks his emails again, just in case. There’s nothing new. Nothing new arrives for the rest of the day, either.

Noct is already in the training hall, practicing his left-handed throwing, when Ignis arrives. He grins at Ignis, disappears his training sword into the armiger, and jogs over. ‘Hey, Specs,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Exhausting,’ Ignis says, honestly.

Noct winces. ‘Up for training?’

‘I’ll have to be. How did the luncheon go?’

‘Not bad. I managed to slip it in a couple of times, neither person grilled me.’ Noct hesitates, swinging his hands by his sides. ‘Hey, if things are going to go down, do you want to camp out at mine for a while? Until it blows over.’

Ignis makes a noise to show he’s heard and bends down to start his stretches. ‘Perhaps,’ he says after a while. ‘I’m not sure when things will start happening, so I’m hesitant to move before anyone else does. And Noct, don’t just stand there when you should be training.’

Noct groans but moves to the side to start practicing again. ‘And you’re okay?’ he says after a couple of throws that both hit the target neatly. His voice is casual, but Ignis can hear the earnest anxiety in it.

‘Yes,’ he says reflexively, then stops. He thinks of what will happen when he gets home. His uncle’s bed. His uncle, waiting for him.

There’s no justification for trying to appease him now. Ignis doesn’t need to keep him happy or else risk being sent away, because by now, if his uncle realises what’s happening, there’s nothing Ignis can possibly do to soothe him. He’s burnt his last bridges; there’s no going back, no point even trying.

The urge to go to his uncle, to do what he’s told, to lie down and take it and take it and take it, twists Ignis’ guts. He pushes too hard in his stretch and a stab of pain has him hissing and straightening.

‘Specs?’

‘No,’ Ignis says. ‘No, I’m sorry, but I’m not — I’m going to have to take you up on your offer.’

‘Okay,’ Noct says, with certainty. ‘Sure.’

For the next three hours they train together, deadly machinery, perfect synchronicity, and when they’re done, sweating and out of breath, Ignis sends a text to his uncle. He tells him that there’s been a last minute change in plans and he’s having to stay with Noct for undisclosable reasons, for an indeterminable amount of time. Then he mutes the alerts for the conversation and puts his phone back in the armiger.

When they leave, it feels — he’s half sure he will drive out of the carpark and his uncle will be standing there at the gates, waiting for him. He’s not. Noct taps at his phone while Ignis drives.

‘Hey,’ Noct says when they’re about halfway home. ‘Gladio and Prompto are free, if you wanted them over. We could get food. I’m starving.’

‘Don’t you have anything I can cook?’

‘Eeeh,’ Noct says. ‘No?’

‘I distinctly remember you having full cupboards only this morning,’ Ignis says. ‘But if you want to invite the others, please do.’

‘Come on, we can order in,’ Noct says. ‘Gladio can even go pick it up on his way.’

‘So kind of him to volunteer,’ Ignis says dryly. ‘Now, what was it you wanted again? Bean and vegetable soup?’

They end up getting curry and skewers from two different places, Gladio grabbing the curry and Prompto the skewers, and it’s a feast together. Ignis’ hands twitch to check his phone, but he leaves it in the armiger.

Two days later, Ignis arrives at his office from Noct’s apartment, where he’d been staying, and is met with his secretary. ‘Oh,’ she says, and the concern is blatant in her face and voice. ‘Your uncle is looking for you.’

‘I see,’ Ignis says. ‘Was he—’

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘He was furious,’ his secretary says helplessly. ‘I told him you wouldn’t be in until late morning…’

The relief doesn’t quite blossom inside him, but it creeps in and swells. ‘Thank you,’ he says, perhaps a little too fervently to be proper, but she is, after all, working for him. ‘As it were, I am feeling a little under the weather today, and will be working from home. I just need my laptop.’

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I hope you feel better soon.’

Ignis goes straight to Noct’s apartment. Once there, enclosed within the walls, the door firmly locked behind him, he lets himself stop and breathe.

He checks his phone, still standing in the hallway by the shoes. Astator had been trying to call him but his phone, being in the armiger, couldn’t connect. In his conversation with his uncle there are dozens of messages; he doesn’t read them save for the last couple, which demand he return home.

Gladio has also sent him a message: _shit your uncle is being sent to Niflheim? That your doing?_

 _Yes_ , Ignis sends back, then puts his phone back into the armiger.

Noct’s apartment is quiet. It feels a lot larger than it usually does, when Noct, Gladio and Prompto are present. It’s clean and tidy despite Noct’s best attempts at scattering his belongings across every available surface, including the floor.

Ignis sits down at the dining table and gets out his laptop. He logs into his uncle’s email, deletes the rules he’d set up, and then deletes his temporary email address. He logs out and clears his browser’s site data.

He really should be catching up on all the work he’s missed, of which there is a considerable amount. He can start preparing dinner; he can make something extravagant, with dishes everyone will enjoy. For now he goes and gets an Ebony from the fridge, and settles back down to look for apartments to rent nearby.


End file.
